Blu
by cornerstone
Summary: Two citizens struggle to survive in a world of conflict, deception, and violence. Based loosely on the Knuckles comic series.
1. Prologue

His eyes stared back at me, frozen in the same sickening astonishment that had shot through him the moment he realized his life was over; that split second just before it hit him. Now, lying lifeless, tied to a chair and drenched in his own blood, he never took his gaze away from me. Even after he took his final breath, he accused me, asking me why all of this had to happen the way it did.

I couldn't respond. There was nothing to say. 'Sorry pal, better luck next time?' Fuck that. No one ever gets a next time in this line of work. Screw up once and you hit the wall, end of story. Part of the fine print in the contract, I suppose.

Funny thing is, we had never really talked about death. Sure, it was mentioned passively around the poker table, and after those all-or-nothing moments where the dust setlled, and we were finally able to take a breath, light up a few cigarettes and say, "Fuck, we should've died!" Yea, those were the good days, the days where you could conquer the whole damn world with the pull of a trigger, make everyone fall to their knees and tremble with fear. We were the gods of the street, the masters of our trade.

Fate has a way of being really fucking ironic.

Some of his blood was spattered across the side of my face. I went to wipe it off, but my hands were kind of tied at the moment. Literally, with nylon rope. I could smell it in my nostrils; the smell of death consumed me, but this time it wasn't quite the same. I didn't feel proud, I didn't feel accomplished, I felt…afraid. Alone. Hopeless. Staring down the barrel of a .45 automatic pistol, those cold, green eyes staring coldly back at me through the sights. He said something, but I couldn't hear him. The voices in my head were screaming, drowning him out. I had to do something. I had to get out of here.

They were picking him up now, being very careful not to get any blood on their cleanly pressed suits.

"Get your fucking paws off of him!" I screamed, then felt a sharp pain streak across my face. My vision went blurry, and a thousand sirens went off in my head. There has to be some way out of this! They cut him out of the chair, and then one of them grabbed a black canvas bag from the corner. I almost screamed as they started to stuff him into the bag like a hunk of meat. Fucking meat!

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The rope tore into my wrists like a razor, a slow, sharpening pain that only got sharper the more I tried to forget about it. My friend was getting bagged like garbage, and all that was stopping me from ripping this prick's head right off his shoulders was some string. I figured it was all just a dream, and that in a moment I'd wake up in my shitty apartment, find him still alive, and plant a big wet one right on his lips. As it turns out, only your worst dreams ever become reality, and as soon as another strand of nylon string trapped him in that bag, my reality shattered.

He told me about what he'd do to me if I didn't give him what he wanted. I wasn't listening. There wasn't much anyone could do to me now. I was already dead.

I started to laugh. God, how I started to laugh. When you've finally accepted that your life is officially over, you can't help but be amused at how magnificently futile everything becomes. I should've seen this coming; I did see this coming; this is the culmination of everything I've ever accomplished in my miserable little life, and _that _is fucking funny. I must've looked like a total nutcase, because suddenly everyone in the room was staring at me, horrified. In that instant, the man tied to the chair, with a loaded gun pointed straight at his skull, was the most powerful man in the whole damn city. Yea, I was a god again.


	2. I

223 Emerald Avenue; B-District. A short walk from the town square, and about a mile from EST HQ, you'd stumble across a block of low-income flats, a rather dismal scar on the city's more opulent appearace. The condition of this particular building was a fairly good representation of the district as a whole: Walls peeling off in the heat like sunburned skin, a dull, yet potent smell of cabbage and oysters that crept through everay hallway, smoke alarms that don't work and squealing stairs; scorch marks from molotov cocktails and hand grenades created rather ornate patters across what would have been a more mundane stretch of wall. Much of the area was in a similar condition, but this building was one of the worst hit in the area. A real bomb magnet from the conflict. It was rumored that some DLs had hidden here during the fighting, and that there were still active bombs stashed away beneath the floorboards. That rumor was sufficient to keep demand for housing at this particular establishment low, and the rent subsequently lower.

But one man's trash is another man's treasure, or so they say. The building wasn't as worn-down as the exterior would lead some to believe. While the rotting wooden staircase, crumbling drywall, and the unusual, persistent smell might turn away more well-off tenants, there was sufficient demand from the homeless to fill the gap. It was the history surrounding the area that made people really avoid it. As it turns out this was the very section of the city where the conflict occurred.

B-District: to some, a wound just starting to heal, the pain gone, but the scar a constant reminder of the pain. To others, a more gruesome depiction of the city's overall decay.

* * *

10:02am. Way too early for an alarm to go off, in Flint's opinion, especially after you were up until 4:30 playing poker and getting drunk. He grimaced with every nauseating chirp that rang through his ears, like someone was smacking him upside the face, laughing like they had just had their vocal chords removed and didn't quite know it yet. Flint slowly opened one eye. The mid-morning light blinded him for a brief moment, but soon he was able to spot the perpetrator. It was that damn electronic clock that Flame had bought a few months ago. Neither of them knew how to operate technology very well, and one day Flame accidentally set the alarm to go off at 10:02 every morning.

No one knew how to turn it off.

It was about three yards away, perched conveniently on top of the kitchen counter, next to a week-old empty bag of potato chips and an empty beer bottle, remnants of a midnight snack from days of old. Frantically, Flint searched the vicinity for something to shut the thing up.

He couldn't quite remember why he was lying on the couch, but assumed it had something to do with the almost empty bottle of whiskey he had clenched in his right hand. He could throw that, but then he'd have to deal with a load of glass all over the tile floor of the kitchen. No, not this early in the morning, and not with this kind of hangover.

Flint groaned as he rubbed his head. It felt like someone was slowly running a tank over his head, while the clock watched and cackled like a sick hyena. He shut his eyes tight to try and block out the pain and frantically moved his hands around the couch. Finally, he stumbled upon a 9mm Beretta, gripped it in his left hand, and with an emphatic grunt tossed it across the room. It wasn't until it was halfway to its target that Flint finally realized how outrageously stupid that maneuver was. Quickly, he rolled off the couch, hit the ground with a grunt and covered his head with his hands, expecting the gun to go off on impact. He heard the two objects collide, a smash, and then pristene silence.

He sighed with relief, "This is a great way to start the day."

He got up and dusted himself off. The living room he had collapsed in looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a week. Flint knew it was more like eight days, so he took that as a compliment. There was an onlive green two-person couch in the middle of a room facing a TV that got one channel on a good day. Flint wasn't sure if that was because the electricity to B-District was routinely cut to power the rest of the city, or because he never paid for cable in the first place. Either way, it served as a nice table. As he shuffled towards the kitchen in a pair of dirty jeans, kicking away take-out boxes and old newspapers along the way, he spotted the clock lying on the cold tile floor, unplugged and in a half dozen pieces, and couldn't help but smile. The beretta was lying next to it. He picked it up, made sure the safety was on, and then set it down on the kitchen counter next to the sink.

Another burst of pain gripped him tightly, the alcohol having a field day destroying the mysterious inner workings of his nervous system. Flint gripped his forehead. He thought he'd be used to hangovers by this point. Slowly, he made his way farther into the apartment towards the bedroom, carefully pushed open the door and peeked inside. Sure enough, he saw some light green fur peeking out from behind the covers. Flame, his longtime partner in crime, had left the weekly poker game early and must have grabbed the bed as soon as he had gotten home. Flint quietly made his way towards the bathroom on the opposite wall, avoiding anything that could make any noise. This room was significantly cleaner than the rest of the apartment, but a few empty cans and other potential troublemakers had found their final resting place this far into the house. Flint could only imagine why.

As soon as he was in the bathroom (inconveniently attached to the only bedroom), he gingerly closed the door and headed for the medicine cabinet located behind the mirror. He grimaced as he scanned the contents for some pain-killers, only finding some bandages, cough medicine, a .45 automatic, a box of ammo, and some laxatives left over from that April Fools prank. He closed the cabinet hard in frustration, and took a look at himself in the mirror.

He wasn't in too bad of shape, considering his line of work. A few scars were pockmarcked across his light-blue fur from various knife and gunshot wounds. There was a dark blue streak of fur across his head that stretched all the way to the back, broke off, and then darted slimly down each of his locks. It was a distinct series of marks that everyone seemed to find very attractive. They only reminded him of his father.

"Damn," he scowled, "I'm starting to look just like him." He traced the dark fur with his fingers, starting just above his eyes and going all the way down his locks. Sometimtes heredity leaves the deepest scars, he thought, as he stared at the mirror image of his father that softly gazed back at him from behind the glass. "If only you could see me now," he thought, "and see how messed up I've become."

The throbbing pain in his skull returned to thrust him back into reality. He needed to go get something for his hangover, and fast. He exited the bathroom to find Flame sitting upright, the bedsheets covering his lower body just enough so Flint knew he hadn't worn anything to bed. He had to admit, it was kind of cute seeing him like this, drowsily rubbing the sleep from his eye, his fur seemingly glowing in the mid-morning light that came through the bedroom window. The steel-plated goggles that he had worn for as long as Flint had known him were resting just above his hazel eyes, pushing some of his fur up with them.

"Morning," Flint said, struggling to smile and ignore the throbbing pain in his head, "I hope I didn't wake you."

Flame rested an arm on one knee and let out a yawn. "Nah, it's okay. I should've been up earlier." He was still pretty drowsy, but managed to crack a polite smile. "I would've thought you'd still be asleep, though. What happened?"

"That damned alarm clock went off again."

"You broke it, didn't you."

"With my Beretta."

Flame frowned. "I don't wanna know any more than that." He turned to face away from Flint and dangled his feet off the bed, picking up a pair of jeans lying on the floor and slipping them on. Flint watched silently. Both of them shared wardrobes, since money was hard to come by. But since they both had a realitively similar build, so it wasn't too much of a discomfort.

Flint waited until his partner was standing. "We need to get some pain-killers."

"We're all out?" Flame replied, with fake enthusiasm. "We're also out of food, in case you didn't notice."

He hadn't, although at the mention of food, he suddenly felt very hungry.

"Why don't you stop over at the square and pick up some of both?"

Damn it. Flint saw this one coming a mile away. He started to object, but Flame was already dressed and out the door before a single word came out of his mouth. He had always found something about Flame's behavior regarding the square perculiar, and had managed to inquire about his unwillingness to travel much farther than the borders of B-District only once a few months ago over a light meal. Flame had refused to reply with anything more than "I just don't like going there." As if Flint didn't.

Flint quickly grabbed a plain brown shirt that was draped over one of the bedposts and slipped it on, then reached behind the bedroom door and grabbed a pair of black boots. As he sat down on the edge of the bed to slip them onto his feet, his mind began to wander back in time, to try and latch onto a particular moment that would shed a more definitive light on Flame's perculiar habits. In the two years Flint had known him, from the time he found him alone and wretched behind a bombed out residential block, and through their time as partners, Flame had never exposed nor had Flint ever discovered any glaring reason for his behavior.

He tied two knots on each boot and stuffed the loose shoelaces into the side. They fit a bit too snugly; Flint was going to have to buy a new pair soon. On his way past the kitchen, he stopped for a moment to think. There was something he was about to forget to bring with him, and he knew it. His sudden interest in Flame had caused his memory to slowly slip through his fingers. Now confused and frustrated with this most recent turn of events, Flint decided that his best option of avoiding insanity would be to leave as soon as possible. He briskly made his way towards the coat hanger that sat adjacent to the front door. On it was his favorite black leather jacket, the kind with the unusually placed zippers and metal loops that served no immediate purpose. Flint liked it because it made hiding his money easier. Bottom left pocket, just above his tail. He reached in and pulled out a few bills. Maybe this would be enough to get everything he wanted. He stuffed the cash back in his pocket and quickly slipped the jacket onto his back.

Keys in the right chest pocket. In one swift motion, Flint opened the door, slid out, and shut it behind him, removing the key ring from his jacket and inserting a bronze-colored one into the door handle. After that, he switched to the next key on the ring; this one was smaller and fit the bolt lock just under the door handle perfectly. Next one; the larger bolt that he and Flame had splurged for after their apartment was broken into by some adolescent thugs. All they took were some beers, but Flint managed to hunt them down all the same. It was the principle of the matter.

Locked up like a safe. Flint returned the key ring to its designated pocket, gave it a quick pat and made his way towards the stairs. The inside of the flat wasn't as dilapidated as the outside was. Some of the wallpaper was peeling at the corners, but overall it rivaled some of the finer low-income establishments in the more classy parts of the city. Every third wooden board on the floor creaked for some reason, niether he nor Flame could figure out why. They simply learned to avoid them. It was like a game of hopscotch trying to get down the hall. The stairs were even worse, although Flint assumed that was to dissuade would-be theives from sneaking in and hassling any of the other patrons. He had always figured the landlord would have invested in something a bit more practical, like a firearm, but then again he never really saw the landlord anymore. It didn't seem like anyone would really be interested in stealing from this crap-hole, but better safe than sorry, Flint supposed.

Down three flights of stairs and out the front door into a burst of warm air. It was a crisp Summer morning; only a few lonely clouds attempted in vain to conceal the brilliant blue sky. Some birds chirped a soft melody as they flew towards the square, adding a hint of music to almost perfect weather.

Flint thought it was sickening. Luckily it was rained for a few days before this, and the ground was still a bit wet as a result, a small glimmer of mediocrity to shatter the perfection. Flint loved it when it rained, mainly because it made most everyone depressed but him. It was the only time he could go outside and just be alone. But now it seemed like everyone in B-District was out.

He started making his way towards the town square, passing by some perculiar characters along the way. B-District was renowned for its colorful population, and while Flint's appearance was certain to attract attention once he got to the square, in this part of town he was pretty plain. He passed by a couple of teenage vulpines smoking cigarettes by a broken streetlight; one of them had more piercings than Flint could count in the few seconds the kit was in his vision. They monitored him with guarded curiosity as he passed by, either because they thought he was an undercover soldier or his reputation preceded him. Either way, he just stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and walked right by, paying careful attention to not make eye contact with any of them. He wasn't interested in starting a fight right now, but maybe on the way back after the painkillers had kicked in. He was pretty sure one of them had swore at him as he passed, asked for a brutal lesson in manners. Flint would have to administer the curriculum later.

Most of the citizens in B-District kept to themselves unless they had a bone to pick with someone. Across the street, a group of thugs had just pushed a man to the ground and were digging into him with their steel-toed shoes. In this neighborhood, you didn't try to play hero; you just looked the other way and kept walking. It was about a half a mile to the town square, but it would seem a lot longer if you had to get their with both your legs beaten to hell. So Flint made his way to the square swiftly and silently, keeping the eyes forward and the pace moderate. He was almost certain that his current reputation as a badass would deter any would-be assailants, but Flint preferred to play it safe, taking a short glance over his shoulder every few minutes to spot any suspicious behavior. Flint managed to make it all the way to the square without a scuffle, breathing a sigh of relief and beginning to wonder if this day might actually turn out to be a good one, despite the horrible weather and thatdamned alarm clock.

Walking between B-District and the town square was like walking between two different worlds. Everything B-District wasn't, the square was: clean and ornate, awe-inspiring high-rises in the distance and elegant fountains created a brilliant cascade of art and architecture. Thousands of citizens passed through this area every day, making it a hot-spot for store owners to try and set up shop. Everywhere you went, someone was trying to sell you something, shoving some new item in your face, telling you how you couldn't possibly live a decent life without it. You could get anything you wanted in the square, for a price. Food, drink, entertainment, anything your perverted little heart could coalesce. Businessmen, politicians, middle-class citizens, almost every walk of life was present, filling the atmosphere with a constant energy that kept the square alive all through the night. It was the apex of their civilization, a consistent and self-sufficient capitalist machine.

Most of the citizens in the square kept to themselves unless they had a bone to pick with someone. Across the way, a group of men in sharply-pressed suits were arguing with a manager about the quality of their meal. In this neighborhood, you didn't try to make sense out of the nonsensical; you just looked the other way and kept walking.

"Bastards should feel lucky that they even _have_ food," Flint swore under his breath. These kinds of people made him sick, but it was their nauseating lifestyle that made sure he and Flame always had work. A necesarry evil, Flint assumed.

He spied the shop he was looking for over the heads of the crowd, about thirty yards away. Flint pushed through them as best he could, receiving unusal stares and the occasioanal insult as he struggled against the flow of this free-market river. Every time he touched a suit, he felt sick, with every cruse he nearly snapped. Everything about this place made him crazy, and he wondered if this was why Flame insisted on never setting foot here. A minute passed like an eternity, the hands of time seemingly taking a cigarette break every three seconds to light one up and watch him suffer, until he finally arrived at the front door of the General Store.

A small bell announced his enterance as he slid through the door, catching the attention of the store owner, Laura-Le. She was a small, petit young woman in her early twenties. Light purple fur, piercing blue eyes, and a very attractive smile. But depite her innocent appearance, Laura was a force to be reckoned with. A few months ago, she had complained about a group of young boys who hung around her store, harassing customers, making cat calls, just being jackasses. Flint had offered to help deal with them, but she had respesctfully declined. Three days later, they tried to make a pass on her, and the hospital had three new patients. She was strong and extremely tempermental, but as long as you were polite and didn't try to get in her pants, she was great.

Her face beamed when she saw Flint enter her store. "Flint!" she exclaimed in a hospitable tone, "How are you?"

Flint smiled. Laura was always in a good mood, it seemed. "Not too bad, I suppose. You?"

Some of the joy seemed to fade from her expression. "Could be better. Business is a little slow these days."

"Why is that?" Flint said, taking up a position on the other side of the counter.

She raised her left arm to reveal a small metal bracelet. These were tracking and information devices employed by the EST to track subjects of the program, a sort of lax probation they often implemented for the more well-behaved.. If you were under their supervision and turned out to be an upright member of society, they would sometimes trust you enough to not track your every movement, opting instead to check up on you every couple of days. Laura had been so good that the EST had let her run this shop after the store owner passed away, stopping by only once every few weeks. Now, something had drastically changed.

Flint laughed. "I didn't know you were on the program's naughty list, Laura-Le!"

She frowned, "As it turns out, those punks that used to hang out in front of the shop reported me to the EST after they recovered. About five days ago a couple of soldiers came in and slapped this thing on my wrist," she shook her arm, letting the smooth bracelet slide across it, "It's a real pain when I'm trying to take a shower."

For a split second, Flint imagined Laura taking a shower. Sometimes jewelry had all the fun.

"So now no one wants to shop at a place run by the DL, right?"

Laura nodded, "It sucks, but there isn't much I can really do. If I manage to remove the bracelet, I'll get arrested. Besides, I kind of like the solitude." She laughed, but Flint could tell she was still troubled by the ordeal. "But hey, that's enough about my woes. What about you? Business must be booming now."

Flint shook his head, "Haven't had a major call-up in months."

She seemed shocked, "That's odd. Rumor has it the EST is upping their contract count soon," she motioned for Flint to lean in closer, "and this has yet to be confirmed, but I heard from a fairly reliable source that a group is planning some big shit really soon."

He raised an eyebrow, "Well I haven't heard anything about that."

"That's too bad," she said, trying to be as sympathetic as possible, "if I hear about anything up for grabs, I'll let you know, free of charge. How's that sound?"

"Gee, thanks a lot," Flint replied with as much sarcasm as he could muster as he turned and began making his way down the aisles. Laura's presense was a pleasant distraction, but he had to try and concentrate on the task at hand. Money was tight, so it was important to stick only to the essentials: bread, cheese, some meats, potato chips. Flint headed to the refridgerator in the back of the store and pulled out a 12-pack of brews. This could last us for most of the week, Flint thought to himself, as he clumsily carried his purchase to the register.

"You know," Laura suggested as he stumbled to recover his grip on his purchases, "We _do_ have baskets to make that sort of thing easier." She motioned towards to door where Flint had first entered. Sure enough, about a dozen red baskets were stacked directly adjacent to where Flint had been standing only a moment before. He shrugged and dumped his groceries onto the counter, pulling the cash out of his jacket as Laura rang up the items.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Flint took a quick look back across the aisles, "You still sell painkillers, right?"

"Third aisle on the right." She smiled and pointed at a small section of various generic medicines. Flint quickly grabbed a small pack of tablets from the third row and slapped them down next to the rest of his items, which Laura had already begun stuffing into brown paper bags. She punched in the serial number on the side of the pack and then dropped it into one of the other bags.

"Ok, your total comes to…"

Flint flipped through the bills he had in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times. A look of frustration and embarassment creeped across his face as he tried to maintain his composure. The last person he wanted to come across as weak to was Laura.

"I, uh, I don't seem to have enough money." Laura put out her hand, and Flint reluctantly placed the money in it. She started to silently count it. "Like I said, you know, times have been pretty tough, what with no contracts, and all, so, uh…"

There was a chime and the cash drawer below the register slid open, revealing a very modest amount of cash, even for Flint. Laura silently put the bills inside and pressed it shut.

Flint started to blush, "Look, you don't need to do that."

"No, I don't," Laura replied, flashing her signature smile, "But I am."

A small glimmer of perfection to shatter the mediocrity.

Flint returned the smile and grabbed a bag under each arm. As he headed out the door, he turned and thanked Laura again. A small bell announced his exit.

In the square it was business as usual. Just a few yards down a man had set up a cart and was selling fresh produce. There was a crowd of people surrounding him, handing him cash from every direction. The man laughed out loud in a friendly, polite manner as he distributed his wares. Laura was right, no one was interested in buying from an ex-DL soldier. Spotting a small wooden bench next to him, Flint decided to take a quick break before plunging back into the fray. He took a seat, placing the grocery bags on either side of his feet and leaning as far back into the bench as he could, the wooden boards creaking noisily under his weight like the ones back at B-District. The familiar sound gave him a small semblence of comfort to offset an otherwise heart-shattering scene. The feeling became more noticable as Laura-Le exited the store and spotted him sitting alone. With a smile she sat down next to him. Flint hadn't noticed the dull blue worker's apron she had on over her clothes until now, as she searched the few pockets it contained for some mysterious object.

"Shouldn't you be watching the store?" Flint inquired, trying desperately to avoid staring at her magnificent figure.

Laura was too busy patting down her apron to notice. "Yea, probably," she said with a hint of aggrivation, finally concluding her search with a frustrated sigh, "But, as you saw, no one's really shopping here anymore. Dammit." She looked up at Flint, who immediately made eye contact with her. "You wouldn't happen to have a pack on you, would you?"

He shook his head, "I don't smoke. You know that."

"Yea," she said with a smirk, "Figures. You drink, you get in fights, you nearly get yourself killed at least once a week, but the one thing you don't do is smoke," she chuckled, "I just don't get you sometimes, Flint."

Their conversation went dry a moment later, both of them turning silently to watch the crowds press by in a frenzied rush to get nowhere. Flint didn't mind the awkward silences, he just enjoyed the company. The only time he and Flame were ever together was at poker games or while they were working contracts, but there really wasn't much time for serious conversation when you're getting shot at or trying to act nonchalant while holding a straight flush. Thus, Laura-Le proved a more stable companion most of the time.

"So what's it like on the outside?"

Flint turned, Laura watching him silently for an asnwer, her soft expression hinting at a hidden sense of dissatisfaction. Flint couldn't blame her, not when she looked so innocent.

"What do you mean?"

Laura turned back towards the crowd, "Like these people. Free to do whatever you want without someone breathing down your neck, waiting for you to screw up."

"Is it really that bad?" Flint replied, his eye catching another glimpse of her bracelet. Laura followed his glance towards it and tapped it with her finger.

"No, I suppose not," she replied heavily, "It's unsettling having to live every day knowing someone's monitoring your every move, though."

Flint was silent for a moment; the idea did seem unnerving to him. He tried to comfort her all the same.

"Well, if you don't have anything to hide-"

"Everyone has something to hide, Flint," Laura cut him off, "There's always something you try to keep tucked away from evryone else. It's what makes us unique."

"Maybe you're right," Flint conceded. There was no use arguing against her in this situation.

Suddenly, Flint felt an inexplicable wrenching in the pit of his stomach; Laura's words had unnecessarily struck a tone with his conscience.

"My father..." Flint hesitated, Laura turning back towards him with a look of naive interest.

Flint started again, but a voice in the back of his mind was screaming for him to stop before he made himself look like an idiot.

"...my...father..."

"Oh, shit."

Flint was jolted from his unpleasant memories as Laura redirected her attention towards a small group of vulpines sporting matching navy blue jackets and hats making their way towards them. Instantly Flint recognized them as the same group he had passed while making his way to the square, although their new uniforms remained a source of mystery.

"Are these the same guys from before?" Flint inquired.

Laura nodded, "Back to try and regain some dignity, I suppose. Dor't worry, I'll handle-"

Flint stood silently and began to make his way towards the group, leaving Laura-Le a little surprised at his sudden boldness. He confronted them a few yards away from Laura's store. A black vulpine with dull green eyes and a pompous demeanor stepped out in front of the group, apprantly the leader, his numerous ear piercings emitting a white glow in the rising mid-day sun.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" Flint stated bluntly, fitting his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Yea," the black fox said, his voice high and harsh like nails on a chalkboard, "You can start by gettin' the hellouta' my way!" His two comrades snickered, apparantly finding his comment oddly amusing. The boy started to make his way around Flint, who placed his palm on the young fox's chest and forcefully pushed him back to his original place next to his uniformed companions.

"I didn't say you could leave yet," Flint spoke with a calm, controlled tone. "My good friend over there tells me you guys have been a little disruptive."

"So?" the vupine spat irreverently, his words dripping with malice, "What are you gonna do about it?"

Flint grinned, "I'm going to give you five seconds to turn around and never come back here agian."

The uniformed trio laughed in unison at his apprantly unbelievable request. He could tell these guys hadn't had much in the way of discipline; this was going to be their lucky day.

"Old man," the young vulpine said between laughs, "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

Without a moment's hesitation, the young fox balled his right hand and threw a puch at Flint's nose. Instinctively, Flint tiled his head to one side, avoiding the young fox's attack and silmultaneously grabbing the boy's fist in his hand. Flint smiled with smug satisfaction at the young kit's sudden surprise, and in one swift motion twisted the boy's arm and kicked one of his feet out from under him, causing him to fall hard onto the concrete. At once, Flint pinned the boy's right arm behind his back with his knee and pulled his left arm out above his head, the young vulpine and his friends still stunned from the speed of his maneuver. Like most young thugs, he was slow on the draw, a fatal weakness in most cases. Flint bent down so he was face to face with the grounded vulpine, his tone much more forceful.

"I'm going to tell you one more time: you've got five seconds to walk away and promise to never come back here andmess with my friends again." He wrapped his hand around the young kit's left index finger and squeezed it slightly upward, the boy letting out a small whimper of pain.

"Guys," the young fox pleaded, "Help me out, here!"

Flint looked towards the two remaining thugs, who seemed to freeze solid as he glared menacingly at them. "I guess we're not sure exactly what 'five seconds' means. Allow me to demonstrate." He looked back at his new hostage. "You're going to help me out here for a bit. You know how to count, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Good, now count with me: one!"

With a quick tug, he snapped the young fox's finger out of its joint, producing a sharp popping sound a harsh squeal of pain. He could feel the kit starting to struggle, but his knee was positioned so the young boy's mobility was severely impared. His comrades' mobility seemed to be in a similar state as they watched, horrified.

"I can't hear you counting!" Flint growled at the pinned vulpine.

"...one," the young fox whimpered, his face unnaturally twisted in agony as tears started to well up in his eyes.

"You ready to leave yet, or do I have to count all the way to five!" The young fox shook his head, his teeth clenched too tight to speak. Flint removed his knee from the boy's back, freeing his right arm in the process. The boy quickly gripped his broken hand and started to get back up.

"Leave!" Flint yelled, ushering the boy's to pick up the pace. Immeidately, they began to push through the small crowd that had formed around the group, back towards B-District. Flint hadn't noticed exactly how much of a scene he had made, two dozen faces studying him in hostile silence. What did he care what they thought? He shot a sharp glare across few of them and then pushed back towards Laura, who was holding back a fit of laughter, which made Flint feel a little more at ease.

"At least one person here isn't insane," Flint reasoned aloud as he sat back down next to her.

"I think you just surprised a few people," Laura replied, quickly regaining her composure, "These people aren't used to seeing that kind of violence around here."

"Yea, wouldn't they just love to tune all that noise out," Flint said matter-of-factly, watching the crowd disperse, "I guess reality's just a little too real for some people." There was another brief moment of awkward silence. "Hey, do you have a phone?"

"Yea, there's one in the store," Laura replied with interest, "You need to call someone?"

"I just wanna call in and tell Flame what's goin on," Flint said, following Laura back into the store, "I wouldn't be surprised if we got a visit from these guys at my place, I just want him to be prepared."

She led him into a storage room located behind the counter. A black phone was perched on the wall just inside, behind a mop and bucket. Flint picked up the reciever and quickly dialed in his home number.He was startledwhen someone waspresent to pick it up.

_"Yea?"_ It was Flame.

"Flame?" Flint said, startled, "You're home?"

_"Yea."_ He sounded a bit on edge.

"Is something the matter?"

_"Not exactly,"_ Flame replied, his tone becoming slightly more joyful, _"There's a letter here from EST HQ."_


	3. II

There was a presence hovering just next to him. He could sense it without seeing it, with a kind of omniscient awareness that he found himself suddenly endowed with. Slowly, a paralyzing fear began to creep over him. Without noise, without motion, Flame desperately tried to assess the situation. Lying silently in his bed, he was completely exposed, unable to defend himself against any attack this presence might decide to inflict upon him. Slowly, Flame opened his eyes and turned his head, expecting the barrel of a gun to be staring back at him with a sinister sense of satisfaction; a crack of laughter, a spit of flame and blood, and the darkness would turn to infinity. Somehow the idea of dying was most terrifying only when one knew it was about to occur under unpleasant circumstances.

"Oh, Flint," Flame said with more relieved enthusiasm than he had first intended to produce. It was comforting to see his partner perched at his side, even if it was his presence that had caused Flame's discomfort in the first place. Flint smiled, his calm, brown eyes soothing his nerves.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said softly, his gaze never leaving Flame's. His demeanor began to make Flame more uneasy, his heartbeat becoming a deafening roar against Flint's calm voice.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Flame replied with a hint of shaking concern, losing himself for a moment as he gazed into Flint's eyes for an unintentionally long time. Flint didn't seem to notice; he didn't seem to care. In fact, he returned Flame's affection with a similar transfixing of the eyes.

"I'm here to thank you."

Flame propped himself up on the bed with his elbows. A sudden splash of emotions, of fear and anticipation, came over him as he suddenly sensed the desire in Flint's stare. He struggled to breath as Flint leaded forward, his eyes unwavering and revealing an emotion that trasnscended simple lust. No, Flame sensed a more profound and meaningful attraction as he felt a palm slowly press against his chest. He began to lose himself in the moment, Flint's muzzle so close he could feel Flint's quickening breath against his face. Flame let one of his arms slide around Flint's waist, bringing his partner's body closer to his own. Flint paused, his lips so close to Flame's that he could almost taste them, and in a soft, comforting tone, Flame spoke to his partner.

"I'm sorry it had to be like this."

There was a deafening crack, like thunder had struck only a few feet away from them. Flint's eyes widened, as if Flame's presence had suddenly filled him with indescribable terror, and suddenly his forehead burst forward in a cascade of blood and bits of bone. Flame yelped in shock, Flint's body falling limp against his chest, the blood creeping into his fur. As he stared, horrified, he felt a warm gun barrel press against the side of his head; another deafening crack awoke him from his sleep.

He thrust himself up, a cold sweat forming on his fur. A quick, panicky glance around the room revealed no abnormailities, and Flame was able to breathe a slight sigh of relief. This wasn't the first time he had had dreams like this. They were becoming more frequent and disturbing, like a dull, throbbing pain in his head that he couldn't get rid of. He pressed his hand against his eyes, trying to block out the visions of Flint's lifeless body draped over his, but the memories flooded back into his mind the more he tried to forget them.

The bathroom door opened. Flint seemed a bit startled to see Flame out of bed. He had no idea why.

"Morning," Flint said, flashing the same smile that he had in the dream. Such a beautiful smile. "Hope I didn't wake you."

Flame yawned and moved his hand to wipe away a small tear that was forming in his eye. "Nah, it's okay, I should've been up earlier." He tried desperately to return Flint's smile. "I would've thought you'd still be asleep, though. What happened?"

"That damned alarm clock went off again."

"You broke it, didn't you."

"With my Beretta."

Great, something else that needed replacing. "I don't wanna know any more than that," Flame replied with a frown, turning to dangle his feet off the side of the bed. He could feel Flint's eyes roam across his back, making him blush. Luckily, Flint wasn't able to see it. He slipped on the same pair of jeans he had worn last night and stood up to search for his shirt amongst the trash.

"We need to get some pain-killers."

"No, _you_ need to stop drinking so much." Yea, that's what Flame was about to say, until he remembered that getting pain-killers meant going to the square. Suddenly another string of bad memories rushed into his mind.

…a warm Summer day without a care in the world…

"We're all out?" He inquired, "We're also out of food, in case you didn't notice. Why don't you stop over at the square and pick up some of both?"

He didn't wait for a response. This sudden bombardment of recurring nightmares that played out in his head was becoming too overwhelming, and any visit to the square would only make the situation worse. He found his shirt and slipped it on, making his way out of the bedroom and towards the door with quickening strides. A pang of guilt struck him as he began to slide his brown jacket over his shoulders, that somehow he was making the situation worse by simply avoiding it every time it arose. But he needed to clear his head, maybe take a quick walk in the fresh air to analyze the situation more rationally. It seemed reasonable enough, but a small, harsh voice prodded his conscience, encouraging an alternative plan of action, a more direct solution. Flame knew what that entailed well enough, that knowledge aiding in his decision to get the hell out of his aprartment. Away from Flint, away from home, away from all of the demons of the past.

It was a nice enough day outside, maybe a bit warmer than Flame would've hoped. And yet there was a certain comfort to the heat, a warm, soothing embrace that worked to ease his troubled mind as he made his way through B-District. Stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, he let his mind wander for a minute or two, soaking up the richness of his surroundings. He felt there was a hidden pleasantness to this district. Some people didn't see it; he knew Flint didn't, and yet he didn't quite expect him to. Something about Flint's mannerisms revealed his stark pessimism; the way he lived, the way he worked, all of them hinted at a character built on tragedy and decay. His eyes so sharp and full of anger, and at the same time fragile and wavering, unsteady in their conviction.

Flame could still recall how Flint had watched him in his dream. Why had Flint appeared so docile? He felt flushed as he remembered the longing in Flint's eyes, the helplessness in his demeanor that seemed to cry out for comfort like an wounded animal. His slow, deliberate moves, closer and closer until they were face to face, Flint's hand pressed firmly against his chest. And then, death. Painfully, Flame thought back to when these dreams began to occur. Sometime around their last contract, when Flint escaped death by three millimeters after taking a bullet to the chest. Falme remembered how the gruesome reality of death had swiftly tore away at his pride as he watched his partner, his friend, struggle to survive in a hospital bed.

There's nothing quite as terrifying as seeing someone you admire, someone you percieved as invincible, so weak and in so much pain. Your whole world seems to collapse around you.

Flame froze in his tracks, a pang of bitter emotions surging through him as he slowly analyzed his surroundings. While his mind was day-dreaming, his body had walked a firm path directly towards the location that he had made his life's goal to avoid. His eyes transfixed on the dilapidated constructs, the half-standing walls and rigid shards of broken glass evoking memories of those last few days of happiness that seemed to him like a shadow. No matter how hard he tried to erase them from his memory they had always managed to return. He took a few cautious steps backwards, stopping next to a damp alleyway scattered with assorted refuse. The smell of stagnant water and mold pierced at his nostrils as he turned and took one hesitant step into the alley. The voices in his head began to scream, reasoning with him to just turn and walk away, but he felt compelled to revisit this morbid site, this crimson mark that had permanently stained his existence. He eyed the spot where he had sat two years ago, pressing a revolver to his skull, face streaked with tears, his last remaining effects clenched tightly against his chest, and wondered if he had ever felt more helpless than he had at that moment.

It was Flint who had saved him that day, stumbled across him just as he was about to paint the wall red. Somehow he had managed to coax Flame out of suicide, dusted him off and gave him a place to stay; a place to call home. Was that why Flame felt so attracted to him? Had Flint's unimposing generosity created these romantic feelings? Flame had never tried to answer those questions. He saw no point in attempting to decipher something as bitterly complex as love and affection. You could walk a thousand miles in a lifetime and still end up going nowhere.

After a few minutes of reflective silence, Flame decided to make his way back home. For some perculiar reason, this haphazard visit into his dark and dreary past had catapulted him out of his slump, leaving his mind free to dwell on more urgent matters. It was no lie that work was becoming harder and harder to come by. As the EST started to clamp down on their subjects, tightening restrictions and boosting enlistment quotas, there had become less and less of a need for people in Flame's line of work. But that's not to say there was never a need, it just wasn't as urgent. Over the last few months, the contract count had been declining steadily, leaving Flint and himself in a financial rut, so to speak. As he made his way up the three flights of stairs towards his apartment, every third board shouting under his weight, he began to wonder if it was time for a career change.

He unlocked the bolts on the apartment's front door and pushed it open, a perculiar grinding sound catching his attention. A cautious step into the living room revealed that a medium-sized white envelope had been neatly stuffed under the front door while he and Flint were away. Bending down to inspect the parcel, Flame's eyes widened in the same way a young child's would if it happened upon candy land itself. He had to re-read the first line of the return address, assuming that his eyes had decieved him the first time.

Leonard Winterfield, E.S.T. HQ 

The name itself bore a distinct aura of prestige. Leonard Winterfield was a Constable at EST HQ, just a short step down from the head of the entire HQ, Constable Remmington. As head of SIRI, the Soldier Intergration and Relocation Initiative more commonly referred to simply as "the project," his name was also synonomous with the conflict as a whole, as one of the head designers of the EST's strategies. He was one of their shining young leaders at 24, maroon fur, a handsone physique, and a pair of commanding green eyes; an example to be strictly followed if you were in the EST.

With a certain amount of disbelief, Flame picked up the envelope and inspected the outside for preforations or breaks in the seal. To receive something from the Constable himself was slightly unusual, as most correspondence came through either his personal secretary or the HQ front office. After dropping the unopened envelope on the kitchen counter and opening the refridgerator to grab a beer, Flame took a seat on the living room couch and began to wonder what the letter meant. No doubt it would be a summon for Flint and himself to see the Constable ASAP, but for what purpose? Flame couldn't recall any incident where their work had caused any serious media scrutiny, nor did he think that any of their previous jobs had been worthy of any sort of exempliary praise. No, this was something big, it had to be. Why else would Winterfield send it himself? Flame chuckled at his sudden good fortune, letting the crisp, cool alcohol dull his nerves and amplify his euphoria.

He was in the height of the moment when the telephone rang. He got up, scratching an itch that had suddenly arose on his stomach and made his way towards the telephone ringing atop the kitchen counter under an old newspaper. He placed his beer next to it and picked up the reciever.

"Yea?"

_"Flame? You're home?"_ It was Flint, his voice firm with a hint of aggrivation.

"Yea."

There was a short pause. _"Is something the matter?"_

Flame smiled, "Not exactly." He went silent, deciding to mess with Flint's head for a while before continuting. "There's a letter here from EST HQ."

Another, more porfound silence. _"Flame, don't scare me like that."_

He laughed. "It get's better. Guess whose name I found on the return address." He didn't even wait for Flint to respond, the information was out of his mouth before he even planned to speak. "Constable Leonard Winterfield."

_"Bullshit!"_

Flame could hear another, more feminine voice in the background, prodding Flint to divulge the details of their conversation. It must have been Laura-Le, as that was the only female he had ever seen Flame come in contact with, let alone speak to.

_"Leonard Winterfield!"_

"I kid you not," Flame replied matter-of-factly.

"Did you open it yet?" 

"No, I planned on waiting until you got home first."

_"I'll be over there in about five minutes."_ There was sudden click as Flint hurriedly hung up. In no less than four minutes, Flint's body seemed to be hurled through the door by some unknown force, his face flushed and his lungs gasping for air, a small rim of sweat gleaming off the neck of his t-shirt. He quickly scanned the room, his mind too acutely focused on this mystery envelope for him to even notice Flame's presence near him. Once he spotted the correspondence, he rushed towards it in the same manner as someone who had just revisited their lover for the first time in twenty years. With unsteady hands he set the grocery bags down and began to rip open the envelope. Flame snorted in aggrivation at his partner's unnatural obsession and began taking the groceries out of the bag, organizing them neatly in the fridge. He had the upper half of his body submerged in that icy environment as Flint spoke, seeming slightly less enthusiastic than he had been on the phone a few mintes ago.

"It just says we have to show up at the reception desk by 1300 hours." He slapped the paper with one hand, as if to punish it for getting his hopes up. Flame laughed as he grabbed his beer from the counter and took up a position by Flint's side, taking a glance at the note. The smell of Flint's presence as he peered over his partner's shoulder flustered him slightly, causing him to recall portions of his nightmares. They fluttered across his mind like ashes from a smoldering building, a painful reminder of a horrible past. He did his best not to show his inner turmoil, taking a quick swig of alcohol to try and drown out the screams that tore at him from inside his head.

"We should probably get going, then," Flame said, keeping close to his partner even after the letter had been tossed aside.

Flint eyed the beer in his hand. "I thought I had the last one," Flint snorted with irritated curiosity. Flame grinned in response and motioned towards the door with his free hand.

"Shall we?"

* * *

EST HQ: a series of office buildings, dormitories, and firing ranges just north of the square, a large, imposing collection of constructs that seemed to stand watch over the city like a patient sheperd tending to his flock, or one of those large statues of prominent historical figures, their battle-hardened, determined eyes gazing watchfully over the citizens as they passed. Despite the numerous times the two had been summoned to this place, each visit seemed to bring with it a gut-wrenching nervousness, like you weren't holy enough to be in its presence. The strong, double-paned glass doors slid open as they cmae close, a burst of cool air washing over them as if to cleanse them of the filth that they possessed from being in contact with the civilian world. Inside, the main lobby was spacious yet overbearing, as most military installations tend to be. From the walls hung various recruitment posters depicting tall, statuesque soldiers in crisp, green uniforms standing at attention, eyes fixated on some unknown object in the distance, coupled with a catchy slogan that seemed to motivate one to immediately enlist. Overall, the area had a too-clean feeling like a doctor's office, the kind of uneasy tension that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end as you entered.

The two made their way towards the front desk that jutted out of the far wall. Behind it, two attractive young civilian women dressed in cleanly pressed businesswear worked with unnatural fervor. Flint stepped up to the counter and slapped the letter down on the desk, careful to make as much noise as possible, shocking the young women out of their trance. The one closest to Flint flashed a courteous smile at him while the other resumed her various duties.

"Can I help you with something, sir?"

Flint slid the letter towards her. Without hesitation she scanned the letter and began pecking away at the keyboard with amazing speed and dexterity, eyeing the computer monitor for a few moments, continuing to type, look, type, look. The whole scenario repeated itself for what felt like an eternity, the two of them growing more and more impatient with every passing moment. Flint began to tap his index finger on the desk with frustration, but the secretary hardly seemed to notice.

Her kind, professional smile transformed to one of concern. "It appears that the Constable is in a confrence at the moment," she said, never peeling her eyes from the monitor, as if she were reading a pre-composed response for them. "He should be free at around 3 o'clock if you want to check back then."

"The letter specifically says '1300 hours', lady" Flint said, tapping it with his index finger.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but he's in a news confrence," the secretary repeated. Flame wondered if she was just a dummy with a tape recorder stuck to her back, repeating the same, monotonous speech reel again and again and again.

With a grunt of irritation, Flint turned and scanned the room, his mind working feverishly to come up with a solution. Finally he leaned over to speak to the other secretary, who seemed too immersed in her paperwork to even acknowledge his presence.

"Excuse me," Flint asked, "But could you direct me to Constable Winterfield's office?"

She pointed towards a hallway just to their left, oblivious to the conversation that had just transpired next to her. "Third door on the right."

Flint grinned and motioned for Flame to follow him down the hallway. The other secretary seemed to say "wait," her lips moving but her surprise preventing any air from escaping her lungs. Without hesitation, Flint strode towards the Constable's office and hurriedly opened the door without any notification of his presence. Inside, the Constable was sitting at his desk in dress uniform, his drill sergeant style cover resting next to him in his desk. A woman in a similar suit as the secretary's sat on the opposite side of his desk, a pad and pen in her hands. They eyed the pair with an awkward silence, neither group certain how to handle the delicate situation until the Constable perked up, seeming to finally remember who they were.

"Ah, yes," he said in a friendly tone. His voice was young yet powerful, a definite military man. He spoke to the woman across from his desk. "These are two of my newest enlistees. I was going to help them fill out some necesarry paperwork later today, but it appears that they have arrived early." He smiled at the two, and immediately Flint and Flame knew to just play along. "That shows puncuality. I'm impressed!"

The young lady smiled, buying the Constable's story. "Well, sir, I only have a few more questions for the interview, and since I did arrange to have this meeting weeks in advance—"

"Oh, of course, of course," Winterfield assured her, "I won't waste any more of your time." He motioned for Flint and Flame to sit in two well-furnished chairs adjacent to the door. Flint shut the door behind him and slumped into the chair next to Flame, twiddling his thumbs and eyeing the Constable with a hint of anger.

Winterfield locked eyes with him, and for a brief moment, the two seemed to engage in a mental fistfight, a subtle staredown. Flint eventually diverted his eyes towards a modestly stocked bookshelf that ran across the wall, Winterfield's strong military stature gaining him the upper hand. Flame couldn't help but snicker.

"So, Constable," the reporter picked up her interview, "explain the theory behind SIRI. What is its purpose?"

Winterfield smiled, placing his hands in front of him on the desk and interlocking his fingers. "Well, SIRI is an acronym for the 'Soldier Integration and Relocation Initiative.' Its chief designer was the late Constable Grey, to whom I was a subordinate."

"He was also one of the Contactors," the woman intervened.

Winterfield nodded, "Yes, that is correct. One of the chief designers of our defense strategy against the DL. The man was a brilliant tactician; without his help we would never have defeated them as swiftly and as cleanly as we did that day."

Flint noticed his aprtner grimace at the mention of the conflict.

"But you and him differed as to how to handle the subsequent detaining of prisoners, is that correct?"

"Yes, we had…well…conflicting opinions as to how the EST was to handle the sudden influx of over 500 POWs. All of us knew that we didn't have the capacity to handle those kinds of numbers, so a solution had to be developed quickly."

"You wanted to execute them all, correct?"

Winterfield appeared almost visibly wounded at her comment. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts.

"Well now, you can't go so far as to say something like that," he replied with a slight chuckle, as if he was under the impression that the question was a sarcastic joke. "No, I was simply interested in making sure that those who were ultimately responsible for the deaths of our fine citizens were duly punished. Whether or not that involved execution I was willing to leave up to the decisions of the governing council."

The woman nodded and scribbled on her notepad. "And what was Constable Grey's opinion on the matter?"

"He was much more sympathetic than I was, and for that I give him credit. It's no surprise to me that the governing council ultimately agreed with him on the matter, and that is how SIRI came into being. It was designed as a plan to reintegrate former DL soldiers and mercenaries into our society, give them a temporary home, some food, a steady job, and security."

"And you were opposed to this, why?"

"The EST simply didn't have the power to undertake such a project at the time. We had to franticly increase enlistment quotas, beg for more funding from the governing council, even decreasing pay for our soldiers temporarily so we could come up with the resources to impliment this arduous task. Luckily, the program finally launched and has been a testament to Constable Grey's compassion and ingenuity ever since."

More frantic scribbling. "Then," she said matter-of-factly, her calm, petit voice coated with a neutral spite that only those in the media business could produce, "There was the incident at Blu."


	4. III

No one had really expected it to flourish the way it did. Maybe that's why they found it so suspicious.

A small, inconspicuous nightclub built a short walk from the square had boomed the day it opened, attracting thousands of patrons a night with its energetic atmosphere and extravegant prices. Not a night went by where a queue didn't wrap around the whole of the building and beyond, only adding to its prestige as the city's premier evening hangout.

And everyone owed it all to Demtrius Blu, a shrewd businessman whose name was completely unknown until the opening of his creation. Now, it was synonomous with the city's nightlife. He was a relic, a capitalist mogul hovering high above his subjects in his well-furnished office that overlooked the main dance floor. On special occasions he would sometimes grace his public with a short glance through the tinted windows, flashing a suave, attractive grin as if to say "I'm glad you came to visit. Why not stay a while and have a drink?"

It was difficult to tell exactly where the mob of people on the dance floor ended and the rest of the club began. The crowds ebbed and flowed around the premises like the tide across a shoreline, seeping into the VIP areas and tables that dotted the outside walls, splashing up against the long, blacklight bar to grab a quick refreshment, and then receding back into the center as the night's host DJ spun up another record, the rythmic thumps of the bass, crisp percussion and piercing synthetic beats all melding together to create a symphony of energy and bodies. There were no groups, no couples, no "I am yours and you are mine" mentality in this place; everyone belonged to everyone else, check your morals at the door and let it all hang loose.

"A real soma holiday."

"What?"

Flame sighed in disappointment. He knew his partner would have no idea what he was referencing, yet he had mentioned it all the same. Instead of feeling intellectual he felt a sudden urge to punch someone in the face. He stood in silent frustration, sticking his hands into his jean pockets and watching the crowd assimilate into the center as another beat began to bellow through the various hidden speakers in the club. A group of three females, probably no older than nineteen and sporting various piercings along their slender frames were forming into a small circle on the dance floor, their houling laughter hinting at drunkenness as they pulled each other into a three-way kiss, their tongues writhing feverishly with each other, twisting and melting with the continuation of the rhythm. Another group of young guys hooted and howled on the sidelines, exchanging high fives and pats on the back as they admired the unrestrained sexual sideshow that played out before them.

Flame felt a nudge on his shoulder.

"He's here."

As if on cue, a side door just under the main office swung open, and two well-built men, presumably bodyguards of some sort, filed out and took up positions facing the crowd, their broad, muscular shoulders creating a living wall to shield their target from any would-be assailants.

He was young, probably Flame's age, his black fur making it difficult to follow his path acroos the dimly lit club, near impossible if it hadn't been for his very distinct markings. Two red marks on the cheeks under each eye, crimson triangles with their points reaching just low enough on his muzzle to barely touch the edges of his lips, stood out like beacons despite the rather colorful crowd that populated the surroundings.

He and Flint had been trailing this guy for months. The EST had become suspicious of Demtrius's sudden business success and the increase in violence seen by subjects of the program. They were told that this was his right hand man, that he handled all of Demetrius's business ventures on the ground while his boss sat comfortably behind his bullet-proof glass.

"Let's get going," Flint said over the booming music, patting his partner on the back and beginning to push his way through the crowd. Even with the rhythm in full force, it was difficult to navigate through the crowds. The VIP areas had filled, reserved weeks and months in advance, and the rest of the patrons began to clog the walkways. A young, blue hedgehog lit up a cigarette as Flame passed by him, and he realized that if a fire were to suddenly break out, they would either be trampled or suffocated or burned alive or any terrible combination of the three.

Flint reached back through the crowd and latched onto Flame's collar, dragging him a few feet and grumbling at him to pick up the pace. Their target had stopped next to the bar, picking up a casual conversation with the surly bartender as the two brutes stood watch, eyeing the crowd with sharp, untrusting eyes. As he and Flint approached, they made adjustments to block their target from their view.

"What do you want?" the one on the right spat at Flint, who laughed it off, playing the role of a kind patron looking for some recognition.

"Aw come on, man," he said, "Just wanna buy the good man a drink."

"Not going to happen," the one on the left replied.

"The boss doesn't talk to just anyone."

"Just one drink," Flint insisted, "Dammit, if you want one too, I'll get you one."

"Piss off!"

"It's only a drink!"

"I said, 'Piss off!'"

* * *

Constable Winterfield cleared his throat. The entire room grew deathly silent, and an awkward tension soon enveloped everyone present as they awaited his response. His face was solemn, like someone visiting the family of a murder victim, a sort of respectful humility rather than true sorrow.

"Yes, that was truly a tragic incident," the Constable said, "Truly tragic. But I think we are all well aware of exactly how delicate that sort of situation was. Everyone involved knew the level of professionalism and attention to protocol that needed to be maintained in order to execute the plan properly."

The woman nodded, touching her pen to her notepad.

"Then how exactly did it happen?"

* * *

Adrian leaned up against the bar, motioning for the bartender to come nearer. The older gray hedgehog (or at least he appeared gray under the black lighting) nodded and made his way down the counter.

"What's happening, boss?"

"How's business going so far, Tyrone?" Adrian spoke gruffly, eyeing the crowd as well as his bodyguards. He hated being out in the open during peak hours. There were too many people and he stood out too well.

"Not too bad, boss," the hedgehog grinned.

"Any word from Lightfoot?"

Tyrone shook his head, his earrings chiming as he did. "I'll make sure to get it straight to you once I do."

Adrian nodded, distracted by the sudden commotion that seemed to be building on the opposite side of the dance floor. "I'll be looking forward to it."

"Hey, why don't you hang out with me and the boys sometime? We could kick back a few beers and catch a flick, you know?"

"Can't," Adrian replied, straining his neck to try and see over the crowds, "You know the rules." The bartender nodded, and with a friendly grin he returned to help the various patrons that had sprung up along the bar. Tyrone was a good guy, maybe too good. Adrian would have to keep a close eye on him from now on.

Suddenly, the music ground to a screeching hault, and everyone in the club simultaneously sprang into a melody of boos, hisses, and houls. Adrian noticed his two bodyguards eyeing the area below the main office where the DJ was stationed, one of them speaking into a small microphone embedded in the cufflink of his finely-pressed suit. The DJ was being ushered off the stage by six uniformed EST soldiers.

Adrian suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

"Naturally, there are certain contingencies that cannot be planned for in advance. As long as life has existed, there has been conflict, and conflict itself is largely unpredictable."

"Is that an excuse?"

Winterfield seemed surprised at Flame's sudden interjection. He waved his hand as if to brush away the insult that hung in front of him like an irritating insect. "I'm simply addressing the situation as objectively and rationally as I can. We took every precaution we could to ensure that collateral damage was minimal. The outcome was purely a result of our target's irrational behavior."

* * *

"What's going on, Flint?" Flame muttered under his breath as a squad of EST soldiers armed with submachine guns began to file into the club, the bitter, enraged shouts of the patrons becmoing more reserved and uneasy.

Flame growled. "They'rescrewing up everything."

One of the soldiers, probably a Sergeant, stepped up to the DJ's microphone and tapped it with his hand. "Everyone please remain where you are and stay calm. The situation is under control. Please, remain where you are." Already the tension was building, nervous shrieks eupting every so often from the otherwise silent crowds. Flint watched as a younger soldier stepped up to speak with the Sergeant on the microphone, pointing towards Adrian and his bodyguards. Immediately, the two grunts shifted to block their boss from the three soldiers who advanced on them, shoving the crowds aside like loose baggage.

"I need to speak with Mr. Demtrius Blu," the Sergeant stated in a stern, military voice.

The black echidna with the red markings softly pushed his bodyguards aside to face the soldiers. "I'm Adrian, Mr. Blu's business partner. I can speak on his behalf."

"Negative. I have orders to speak with Mr. Demetrius Blu personally. It's a matter of security, and extremely urgent."

Adrian was calm and composed. Flint could tell that he had had a certain degree of training on how to handle situations like these. Meanwhile, the Sergeant was becoming more aggrivated with every botched attempt at persuading him to submit.

"I'm afraid my boss isn't in at the moment. I have the same legal power as—"

"I don't have time for your bull," the Sergeant spat, "I need to speak with Mr. Demetrius Blu and bring him to EST HQ for questioning _now_."

"Do you have a warrant?"

* * *

The woman seemed confused. "I was under the impression that warrants were mandatory for the arrest of any individual under EST operating protocol."

"Yes, that's correct, unless we have received a signed consent by the governing council for his immediate apprehension. I believe its stated quite clearly under Section Beta 6.1.2 of the SIRI Protocol Amendment Act."

"What other amendments are included with that Act, Constable?"

Winterfield chuckled, as if amused by her ignorance. "Well, I don't want to bog you down with all of the political jargon, but it essentially allows for some legal bypasses to EST protocol with regards to suspects who may be involved with or may be conspiring to commit acts against the governing council as well as any acts that may put the city's well being at risk.

"This is simply a way for the EST to conduct actions against possible threats without having to be bogged down with the politics involved. We must still present the council with probable cause to win their approval, and must always act as professionally as possible."

* * *

"Who thehell do you think you are! If I wanna speak to Blu, you'd damn well better lead me to him!"

"You listen! Unless I see a warrant I ain't showing you jack!"

"That's it!" Without a moments hesitation the Sergeant pulled his pistol from its holster and steadied it at Adrian's forehead, "I'm taking you—"

Immediately Adrian's two bodyguards drew pistols from their jacket pockets and aimed them at him, the two accompanying soldiers in turn raising their submachine guns to the two thugs. A fierce argument broke out, each side ordering the other to drop their weapons and surrender, any slight twitch of the body invoking a threatening reaction from the opposition. A shrill shriek from a femal patron broke through their harsh voices, both sides refusing to back down.

"Gene!" The bartender yelled over the commotion. One of the bodyguards turned his head, his eyes widening as if he was in the presence of a ghost. He withdrew his gun and dropped to the floor, the Sergeant looking beyond him with confusion.

There was a fierce crack as Tyrone fired his shotgun from his shoulder, striking the Sergeant in the right cheek. His head cocked back from the blow, his body following suit and sliding a few inches across the floor. As if by instinct, one of the other soldiers turned his aim towards the bar and fired a hailstorm of bullets, cutting away at the glasses and mirrors that lined the back wall. Tyrone's body spasmed wildly as the gunfire pinned his body against the back wall, sending spatters of blood every which way. The thug who had dropped to the floor pushed the barrel of his gun at the soldier's ankle, firing off two rounds that nearly tore his foot clean off his leg. The soldier cried out, dropping his submachine gun to grip at what was left of his damaged extremity. Before the third soldier could react, he felt the cold barrel of the other thug's pistol between his eyes. A bright flash of light, a crack of thunder, and the back of his head burst into a fountain of blood.

* * *

The woman had filled about two pages of notes thus far. She flipped one of the sheets over and began scribbling on fresh lines as she continued with the interview.

"Do you think that was the reason why the incident occurred?"

"I'm…I'm not sure what you mean by that."

She looked up from her notes, seeming a bit surprised at his response. "The bypass of protocol allowed by the Amendment Act. Essentially it gives the EST unrestrained power to exert their will upon a suspect without due process of law, am I correct? Perhaps it was this absence of restraint that—"

Winterfield interjected, his voice hinting at a building rage. "What exactly are you insinuating? That my men are incapable of controlling themselves? That they are just wild animals who maim and kill on a whim unless they are constantly leashed by bureaucracies and politicians?"

"Well, Constable, it seems obvious that—"

"That what! That my men are barbarians? Burn, rape, and pillage; is that what we do! May I remind you that my men are the ones who secured peace in our city, and that they continue to fight and die in order to sustain that peace!"

* * *

The once docile and relatively subdued crowd had now transformed into a screaming, hectic mob at the sound of heavy gunfire. The remaining EST soldiers scrambled to aid their comrades in vain, the force of the masses clawing to escape the firefight preventing their movement. In aggrivation, a soldier let fly a few sporadic bullets into the ceiling to try and restore order, yet succeeding only in making the situation much worse.

Flint and Flame ducked as the first barrage of automatic gunfire came within inches of tearing their heads apart, using their arms to shield their face and head from the shower of glass that fell from the bar.

"He's getting away!" Flint yelled, the deafening wail of the terrified patrons making it all but impossible to communicate, even if they were only a few feet apart. Through the mayhem, Flame managed to catch a glimpse of their target slipping through the door he had entered from. Flint withdrew his Beretta from the front of his jeans, removed the safety and began to give chase.

"Flint, wait!"

A burst of gunfire from across the club ripped into one of the bodyguards, smashing his collarbone and piercing his neck. The thug grasped at his throat, the blood seeping through his fingers, his lips moving as if to speak but creating only a sickening gurgle as more crimson liquid poured from the corner of his mouth. Flint vaulted over the writhing body, peppered gunfire following close behind, kicking up bits of blue carpet and wall. For s split second, Flint seemed to vaguely remember his partner being with him, the thought more of a distant, fading memory than a striking realization. His mind was focused solely on his objective, the chaotic sounds emanating from the club slowly becoming an irritating drone until fading into nothing as the sound of his heartbeat and heavy breathing worked to fill the silent void.

He came to the door his target had ran through and kicked it open, putting his gun at the ready in case of an ambush. The door lead to a small service hall that split in two directions. At the intersection, he noticed one leading to a starway, the other leading to a door that stood ajar, the dark city lights visible just beyond it. He sprinted towards the opening, determined not to let his months of planning get tossed out the window. He pushed the loose door aside, the rush of cold, midnight air pairing poetically with the sudden pang of terror that began searing through his veins.

* * *

"Exactly how many people died that day?" The woman asked, her tone revealing that she already knew the answer, but wanted to see Winterfield struggle with the numbers.

He hesitated, his eyes beging to waver as he responded. "Seven dead, sixteen injured, most of the injuries caused by the civilians scrambling to exit through the front doors of the facility."

"And yet all of this could have been avoided had the EST simply stuck to protocol and produced a warrant."

* * *

Flame came to an intersection in the hallway, catching a glimpse of his partner as he barreled through the doorway out of the club.

"Dammit." He muttered to himself, pulling his revolver from his jeans and running for the door. He knew trying to stop Flint while he was in the heat of the moment was like trying to stop a speeding freight train, and yet that was the very reason he needed restraining. He burst through the door, the cold night air causing droplets of perspiration to form on his fur. Behind the club there was little lighting, only a few faint spots of illumination created an errie half-darkness. He took a few cautious steps forward, his eyes still adjusting to the low visibility, until he felt his boot strike something on the ground. Bending down to inspect it, he placed his hand on its side, pulling it back to find it covered in blood. A pang of fear shot through him as he violently turned the body over, the face twisted in agony, hands gripping at the chest and stomach with unnatural force, the teeth stained crimson.

"Flint!"


	5. IV

The office door slowly shut, and Winterfield breathed an immense sigh of relief. Leaning back in his leather chair, he massaged the area between his eyes, the stress causing him to forget Flint and Flame's presence in the room.

Flint cleared his throat, and the constable frowned.

"I'm sorry you had to be here to witness that," Winterfield said, rising from his seat, "I really do hate the media." He opened one of the desk drawers and produced a small glass and bottle filled with an opaque brown liquid. Unscrewing the top and filling his glass, the constable eyed his two visitors.

"Would either of you like some?" he asked. They shook their heads, and he placed the flask back in its drawer, taking the cup in one hand and walking to the corner. Flint heard a faint beeping noise, and the back wall seemed to collapse on itself, revealing a large window overlooking the parade field.

"It's a very complicated time," the constable said, looking out over the field, "Much too complicated for a soldier. It used to be simple, with the good guys and the bad guys clearly defined. But now…" he raised his glass to his mouth, the liquid seeming thicker than water as it slid down his throat.

"What did you call us here for?" Flint asked, growing impatient.

Winterfield continued as if uninterrupted. " 'And even though the wound has healed, the blood seeps through.' Constable Grey's words." He returned to his seat, placing the glass upside-down on the corner. "Sometimes a natural, orthodox approach can't completely solve a problem."

"And that's why you need us," Flame replied with a grin.

Winterfield returned the expression, "You two came highly reccomended from my staff. 'Top-notch', they said. And, after reviewing your file, I am inclined to agree with them." He reached into another drawer and produced a manilla envelope stamped with the official EST insignia. "You two know the drill," he said, sliding the envelope to their end of the desk. Flint leaned forward and snatched it from him, reading it in silent contemplation as Winterfield continued. "It's a simple monitor and report job, with a little bit of intelligence work intermixed. I assume you two can handle that sort of thing?"

Flint eyed him over the top of his reading. "Then why the official summons?"

The constable smirked. "This one is significantly more delicate than the usual job. We'll have a specialty EST squad working on the same project; your assistance is required for the more 'delicate' portions of our operations."

Flame frowned. "So are they going to be holding our hands through the whole ordeal?"

"Not if you don't want them to. In fact, there's no reason why you should even come in contact. You will be reporting your findings directly to me, as will my squad, and then my staff will work to coalesce and disseminate the useful information."

Flint closed the manilla file and placed it on his lap. "You still haven't told us specifically what we're doing."

"Of course," Winterfield replied, interlacing his fingers, "Straight to business."

* * *

He tapped his finger against his ebony desk, watching the second hand on the clock mounted over his door swirl past twelve, marking the thirteenth hour.

"Always late," Demtrius grumbled, leaning further back into his black leather chair and turning to look out the large window behind him. Below, the custodians were working feverishly to prepare the club for the next night's patrons: vacuuming, mopping, buffering, sweeping, organizing. A few crates of liquor had arrived through the front doors and were being carried over to the blacklight bar to be stored and evetually served to his customers. He had trouble suppressing a grin as he imagined the floor filled with people. Never in his wildest dreams had he seen everything coming together so quickly and precisely.

The door snapped open, and Demtrius was shaken from his hallucination. Slightly startled, he turned to see Adrian, his right-hand man, standing in the open doorway.

"I…hope I'm not disturbing you," Adrain said, taking a cautious step into his office.

Demetrius chuckled, "Nonsense. Please, come in." He motioned for Adrian to enter as he rose from his seat, opening a small box on the side of his desk and pulling out a cigarette and box of matches. As he placed a cigarette between his lips, he noticed Adrian was holding a white envelope. A sudden nervous anticipation shot through him, causing him to momentarily pause.

"Is that…"

Adrian felt unnerved by his boss's sudden mood change. He played with the envelope in his hand, a sudden urge to tear the letter into thousands of pieces beginning to consume him. He could see the white bits of paper fluttering softly from the sky like snow as he tossed them into the air, Demetrius's face equally white from shock, fists clenched in rage. He'd feel those light blue hands clamp around his throat, tightening like a tourniquet until his hysterical laughter turned into a gurgling choke.

He felt the envelope snatched from his hand, still lost in his mind games. When he finally returned, Demetrius had cut apart the seal and removed the folded letter. He sat back down in his leather chair, the look of a hemit consumed by his holy readings plastered across his face.

_Mr. Demtrius Blu:_

_ There are no complications. I will deliver the gifts as soon as I am able._

_ Half-dark; the 2000s; k-15._

_ Regards,_

_ Lightfoot_

"Eight o'clock, the usual meeting place," Demtrius said as he re-read the correspondence, "Bring two of your men with you, just in case."

Adrian felt sick to his stomach. "How much?"

"Fifteen thousand. You can take it from the safe."

"Sir-" Adrian stopped himself.

"What is it?" Demtrius asked as he set the letter on his desk and proceeded to light his cigarette.

The smell almost made him gag. "It's…it's nothing, sir."

* * *

"Have you ever heard of a group called Retribution?"

Both of them shook their head.

"It's a radical fringe group of ex-soldiers and captives, or at least that's what we know. We've managed to question a few of our subjects about them, but so far we've only been able to snatch up useless facts and a few equally useless names and locales."

"So why the interest?"

Winterfield reached into yet another of his desk drawers, sifting through letterheads and various interoffice memoranda until he stumbled on a couple of greyscale intel photos attached to a report. He slid them both across his desk for Flint and Flame to review.

Flint removed the photos and passed the report to his partner. The first showed a stone wall riddled with bullet holes and a thick streak of blood. Curled in the corner was a uniformed body, shot and beaten almost beyond recognition resting in a puddle of its own blood. Flint grimaced, the next slide depicting more of the same, one corpse's face pierced by a knife, the handle jutting from the victim's right eye, the face contorted in horrible agony. Flint felt nauseous. He began to look at the third photo, but seeing only the corner caused him to reconisder. He flipped them over on his lap in disgust.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, eyeing his partner, who read the report as if it detailed something infinitely more pleasant than what Flint had just seen.

"Those photos were taken about three months ago, when a group of subjects rioted and slaughtered almost a dozen guards. We were able to cover it up enough to where the media couldn't sniff anything out. Damned bloodhounds, they are. Somehow they got their hands on a few weapons, as you can see from the photographs." The two handed the photos and the report back to the constable, who promptly placed them back in their drawer. "As it turns out, someone using the alias 'Lightfoot' has been smuggling arms and other paraphernalia to this group called 'Retribution,' who released a note claiming responsibility for the attack. I have a copy of it here." He produced a paper from his uniform jacket and handed it to Flint who opened it and held it between himself and his partner so they could both read.

_The earth is defiled by its people;_

_They have disobeyed the laws,_

_Violated the statutes_

_And broken the everlasting covenant._

_Therefore **a curse** **consumes the earth**_

**_Its people must bear the guilt_.**

_…_

_The gaiety of the tambouriners is stilled,_

_The noise of the revelers has stopped_

**_The joyful harp is silent_**

_…_

_The ruined city lies desolate;_

_The enterance to every house is barred._

**_In the streets they cry out for wine_**

**_All joy turns to gloom,_**

**_All gaiety is banished from the earth._**

_Let all who see and hear_

_Remember that which came to pass,_

_And tremble in fear at that which is yet to come._

**_Retribution_**_ is at hand._

"Poetic," Flame said, leaning back into his seat. "Vague, too. How do you know this isn't just some prankster who wants media attention?"

Winterfield frowned, "Because it was found on every body."

"So you want us to take care of the guys who did this?"

"Just lead me to them, and I'll take care of the rest." Winterfield rose from his seat and extended his hand. "So, do I have to settle for second best, or do we have a contract?"

Flint eyed his partner, who took one last glance at the note. "How much?"

"Eight hundred thousand. A million if the media doesn't catch wind."

Flint was sure his eyes were going to pop from their sockets. A million! The number seemed unreal to him; they wouldn't have to work for the rest of their lives!

"It's vital that the media never hears of our operation. If they do, the whole EST could be compromised. So," he eyed Flint, then Flame, then Flint again, his hand still outstretched, "Do we have a contract?"

Flint didn't wait for his partner's input. He grasped the constable's hand and shook it firmly. "You bet your ass we do!"

* * *

After filling out the seemingly endless amount of paperwork involved in their contract, Flint and Flame exited EST HQ through the same door they had entered, optimistic and energetic. The sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, peeking out from behind one of the taller buildings on the skyline, bathing the city in golden light. Flame took a deep breath, savoring the crisp, cool air that set his fur on end.

Flint stuffed their copy of the paperwork in one of the inside pockets of his jacket, a childish grin peeking out from the corner of his mouth, his blue eyes gleaming with an attractive sense of joy.

"A million dollars," Flint thought aloud, "Seven figures."

"It's not ours yet," Flame interjected, feeling a bit of remorse for ruining his partner's euphoria. "First we have to find out more about this so-called 'Retribution.'"

"We should go swing by Razor's."

"You really think he'll know anything about this?"

Flint shrugged, the two beginning to make their way down the street. There were few people outside at this time of day; this part of the city tended to shut down relatively early. "If they got their hands on some weaponry, he probably sold it to them."

"True," Flame agreed, turning his body to avoid someone walking the opposite direction. "But does that mean he's trustworthy?"

"I don't see why not." Flint glared at a young woman coming towards him, encouraging her to step out of his way. "His friendship is based on price, not alliances."

"Well, you go on ahead," Flint said, coming to a stop on the corner. Flint stopped a few paces ahead and turned to face his partner.

"You've been acting strange lately," Flint observed, eyes narrowing with concern, "Is something up?"

Flame felt his heart skip a beat. Yes, there was something the matter. He could tell Flint about his dreams, his nightmares, his haunting past, become lost in the compassion he knew had to exist behind those piercing eyes, that blank face. A compelling urge to break down in tears began to creep up inside of him, all of his pent-up bitterness and affection thrashing at his conscience.

"No, nothing's the matter," Flame assured his partner, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. "Just…don't wanna visit Razor right now is all."

Flint smirked. "The guy _is_ a fucking psycho. Ok, I'll meet you back at the pad around dinnertime." Flame nodded and made his way around the corner towards home, a cold chill slithering up his spine as a gust of cool wind caressed his body. At least, that's how he rationalized it.

* * *

It seemed amazing to him at the time, how all of downtown could transform into a ghost town the very minute he needed help. The partially lit sidewalk left no hint of a population, the street unusually silent as if no one had dwelled there for ages. Only the waning moon accompanied him, casting a dim, milky glow to light his path.

He felt his partner trip, the weight of his flaccid body pulling him towards the earth. He grunted in anxious frustration as he reaffirmed his grip on his partner.

"Jesus Christ, Flint," Flame hissed through gritting teeth, "You're going to have to try and walk at least a little bit."

Flint chuckled, his legs shaking like gelatin as he strained to support himself as best he could, one arm around Flint's shoulders, the other gripping his wounds, hand, sleeve, and shirt soaked with blood to the point that it dripped onto the pavement as he struggled to walk.

"It's fucking ironic, isn't it?" Flint said, his voice faint.

"Don't talk," Flint replied, "Just concentrate on staying alive, ok?"

"What difference would it make if I died?"

"Don't fucking talk like that! The hospitals right down there." Flint motioned with his head towards a well-lit building, "EMERGENCY" emblazoned across the large doors in bright red paint.

The color of blood. The scent of death.

"Don't die on me!"

The hundred yard trek seemed to drag on for an eternity, every step seeming to take them farther away from their destination. Flint's body was becoming heavier by the minute, his valiant struggle to survive becoming more futile with every drop of blood that escaped his body. By the time they made it to the front doors, Flame was struggling to catch his breath, his shirt and face stained and wreaking of perspiration. The automatic doors slid open, a burst of cool, too-clean air pressing against him, barring his path. With a grunt, he dragged his partner into the lobby, managing to call for a doctor before collapsing onto the sterilized tile floor from exhaustion, his vision going dark as he saw two people clad in white coats dashing towards them.

"Please…don't…die."


	6. V

Flint pressed his chin against his chest, using the collar of his jacket to block the chilling wind that swept through the narrow alleyway, the smell of rotting garbage and stagnant water playing horrible tricks on his sense of smell. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, this scenery, this tapestry of refuse and decay, brought with it a string of memories, like a record that skips incessantly and disrupts the rhythm of the music. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of his mother's face in the corner of his eye, a hallucination that caused him to jump. Upon noticing the alleyway was void of life, save himself, he let out an unsteady breath, the sudden rush of adrenaline sending a shiver down his spine.

Along one of the walls was a metal staircase leading up to a rotting wooden door. As he made his way up, placing one foot on each step in cautious anticipation of collapse, he took one last glance behind him, seeing nobody and feeling a little more comfortable. The doorknob resisted him, crying out in its desperate struggle not to submit. With a firm tug it finally gave way, the door letting out a satisfied groan as he entered the musky hallway, its dilapidated state reminding him of home. The faint sound of heavy metal rang from behind the walls as Flint moved to the end of the hallway towards a door with a sign that read "If you're selling something, get the hell away!"

Flint pushed the door open, its handle removed years ago for some untold reason. Inside, the music blared through a small boombox on the far wall with a grainy, irritating hiss. To his right, the room was gated off, the entrance chained and locked, securing a couple of gunracks filled to the brim with assorted firearms. The term "illegal" didn't quite do it justice; it was practically a sin. To his left, on a bare concrete floor littered with oily newspapers and dirty rags, a red hedgehog with half-stained black quills was hunched over a rather large rifle, his back facing Flint as he tinkered tirelessly with his weapon. Flint slammed the door behind him, causing the CD to skip and catching the now undivided attention of the shop owner, who turned in an angry huff.

"What the hell…Flint!"

"Long time no see, Razor," Flint replied with an amiable smile. They both took a few steps toward each other and exchanged handshakes, the small, yellow-tinted eyeglasses that sat near the brim of Razor's nose glimmering under the lone lightbulb that illuminated the room.

"Too long, my friend, too long," Razor patted his visitor on the shoulder. "Please, come on over to my workstation, I've got quite a little project going on." He motioned for Flint to follow him, stopping by the wepoan he had been adjusting before Flint had interrupted him: a massive sniper rifle painted silver and wrapped in burlap.

Razor listed the specs with pride. "Fifty caliber, 16x tactical scope, removable steel barrel, and an effective range of about 3000 yards. Leaves an exit wound the size of a basketball, or so I'd imagine." He motioned for Flint to pick up the weapon. "It isn't loaded. The breach is busted, anyhow."

Flint grabbed the rifle and handled it at his side, getting used to the weight. It was significantly heavier than most of the weapons he had handled in the past. Still, he managed to shoulder the weapon for a few seconds, looking down the telescopic sight, picking out the miniscule cracks in the crumbling wall with pinpoint accuracy.

"She's certainly a beauty," Flint complimented, setting it back down on the workspace, careful not to damage anything. "I can't imagine that it's easy to conceal, though."

Razor laughed. "No, not fully assembled. You could fit all of the parts into about two suitcases, I'd think. No one would suspect a thing."

"I feel like an idiot asking this, but is it illegal?"

"Illegal is such a harsh word, Flint," Flame said, grabbing a small tool from his workspace and leaning over to resume his work. "I prefer 'unappreciated'. Besides, it's not like I don't have the money to pay off the soldiers who stumble in every once in a while." He chuckled, putting the tool down and giving an immense sigh of accomplishment. "That oughta do it. Now then," he looked up at Flint, his dull yellow eyes gleaming with a friendliness Flint knew was fake, "what can I do for you?"

"I was interested in finding out who some of your more recent customers are," Flint replied in a stern tone.

"Oh, come now," Razor snickered, "Why would you want to know something so trivial as that? Besides," he bent down behind the desk and out of Flint's view, the sound of clanking glass mixing with his voice, "you haven't been around here to visit me for so long, I was beginning to get lonely." He stood up with a friendly smile, a beer in each hand. "Why not let business wait for a little bit while we, a couple of delinquents, catch up?"

Flint was never known to resist a cold brew, and he didn't plan on starting now. He grabbed one from Razor's hand, twisting the top off and tossing it to the ground. He watched with guarded interest as Razor raised the bottle to his lips, stopping just short of taking a sip and eyeing Flint with curiosity, his friendly smile degenerating into a mischevious grin.

"Something the matter?" He paused, then tipped the bottle upwards, taking a swig with a sigh of satisfaction. "It's an old draft, becoming difficult to find. You're lucky I'm such a giving individual."

Flint grinned, keeping his eyes fixated on the crimson hedgehog as he took a quick sip. His eyebrows raised in surprise, the cold draft going down smoother than the kind he usually drank. He held the bottle out in front of him and memorized the label, making a mental note to start purchasing this from Laura-Le's shop.

"You won't find this in any convenience store," Razor noted, reading Flint's reaction perfectly. "I had to get this special order off the black market. Well, it was more of a payment, so to speak." The hedgehog snickered, taking another swig, eyes glazed in recollection.

"It's pretty good," Flint commented, "Not the best, but pretty good."

"Well, we can't please everybody, now can we?" Razor set his bottle down on the workspace, pulling a metal stool from underneath it and setting himself down lazily. He looked up at Flint with a blank expression. "So, Flint, how's business for you?"

"Just got a new contract," Flint replied with a small grin of satisfaction.

Razor nodded. "I figured. You usually don't drop by unless you have some kind of agenda." There was a brief pause in the conversation, Flint twirling his beer in one hand as his unattentive gaze fell upon the locked gun racks. Pistols, rifles, machine guns of every shape, form and size creating an awe-inspiring collage of violence and chaos. Flint couldn't help but feel jealous.

"Do you ever feel like you're being used?"

Razor's unusually philosophical comment wrenched Flint from his daze. He turned to look at the store owner, who was eyeing him with all seriousness.

"What do you mean?" Flint replied.

Razor sighed. "You know, Flint, by the goons in suits. The EST, the corporate oligarchs, every Joe Blow with a suit and a tie and dreams of world domination."

Flint shrugged. "I guess I haven't thought about it much."

"Well, I have," Razor said, his voice becoming more lethargic. "Just seems like every time I flip on the TV or read the newspaper, someone's dead or dying and some businessman is making a load of dough. Take the Blu guy for example. Probably thinks he own the whole damn city with his fancy little nightclub and all his money. But what do we get? The guys down in the dirt, trying to scrape up a living in this city? Yea, we get shot up! What a goddamned scene this place is." He took a frustrated swig of his beer before continuing. "A real freak show, if you ask me."

"You've certainly got a lot of pent-up emotions," Flint replied with a slight snicker, "You're starting to remind me of Flame."

"And why would you say that?" the crimson hedgehog inquired -- his cold, yellow eyes transfixed on his drink.

"He's been acting very strange lately." Flint thought back to that morning, when his partner had left the apartment in such a hurry, and how he seemed unnerved by the prospect of visiting Razor, something the two had done on numerous occasions. "Seems like he's always distracted, and he refuses to step one foot into the square…"

Razor shrugged. "Well can you really blame him? I mean, considering the kind of shit he's had to endure…" Confused by the eerie silence of his guest, Razor looked up, Flint staring at him in a sort of unnerved bewilderment.

"What?" Razor asked. "Didn't he tell you?"

* * *

Flame shut the door to his apartment behind him, immediately kicking off his shoes and lifting his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the mossy green couch. Inhaling deeply, he made his way towards the bathroom, holding his breath for a few moments before exhaling, some of his stress dissipating. The whole day had been a torrent of nightmares, and as the sun finally began to dip under the horizon of the city, Flame felt content hiding in its shadow. He flipped the switch on the wall next to the doorway, the light flickering as it struggled to illuminate.

He felt like shit; someone was taking sandpaper to his mind, smoothing out the wrinkles so he couldn't think. Groping at his eyes in frustration, he tried to blot out the memories, the ball and chain around his ankle slowly dragging him further and further into insanity. The shower sqeaked on before sending a torrent of icy cold water into his awaiting hand. It was raining that day, too – wasn't it?

"Damn!" Flame spat as he felt the water slowly turn warmer. The past was melting into the present, every thought, every impulse blotching his memory. Was Flame really at Razor's? Had they ever talked to Constable Winterfield? Did the conflict ever occur? Were his parents…

"This is insane," Flame reasoned aloud.

He quickly stripped himself of his remaning effects and stepped into the steamy mist, the hot water working to further calm his nerves. Closing his eyes, the sound of rushing water drowning out the white noise, he was finally able to relax, the warm water melting his worries and cares away as it slid across his fur. With a sigh, he slid one hand across his forehead and down his locks, squeezing the water from them only to find them soaked a moment later. He repeated the motion, finding it more and more enjoyable every time, as if somehow the rinsing was wiping his mind clean. Soon his hand ran across his shoulders and chest, as he began to recall Flint's smile in the morning, how he acted so docile when he was the only one around, how he would fall asleep on the couch watching tv in just his pair of jeans, softly purring like a child.

Flame could feel himself blush despite the warm water, as his hands ran across his sides.

_"I didn't mean to wake you."_

Slowly the water was warming, and Flame swore he could feel Flint's hands rest against his hips.

_"I'm here to thank you."_

_

* * *

_

Adrian rubbed the soap against his hands, using the cold water draining from the faucet to rinse them clean. Grabbing a few paper towels that sat on the small counter below the mirror, he attempted vainly to dry them, discovering too late that they did nothing more than move the water across his fur. He grumbled in frustration, tossing the towels into a nearby trash can and drying his hands on his suit.

In the mirror, a cold, ruthless face stared back at him, eyes fixated with unwavering earnest, features broad and menacing, teeth glittering like brilliant pearls, the canines peeking out from the corners of his mouth. Like an animal waiting for the perfect moment to pounce upon its prey, his face showed no emotion, no hesitance, only pure, relentless concentration.

He could barely recognize himself now. The thought made his stomach wrench, and he did his best to avoid his own reflection. He had known that taking this job would change him drastically, but somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian had hoped that somehow he would be able to maintain some semblance of dignity despite his profession. Respect, yes, he got plenty of that from his colleagues. Hell, he was probably one of the better-known people in the whole city, although he accredited half of that fame to his boss's reputation, and not his own. Still, he wondered what the cost of that glory was, and whether or not he had paid in full.

Outside the bathroom, two brutes in sport jackets held a silent vigil, each one eyeing the opposite side of the hallway for suspicious characters. They were in a restricted area, only employees and approved visitors were allowed behind the main floor, but assailants had a nasty habit of getting access to places they shouldn't. Adrian picked up his small metal briefcase, opened the door and straightened the tie around his neck, nodding to his bodyguards to follow him outside. They were significantly larger than he was in every dimension, their muscular figures acting as steel barricades against any variety of attacks.

"Top notch," Demetrius had praised them. "The best the city has to offer."

Yet Adrian couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that these were crooks and thieves, roughed up and snatched from their homes. Or maybe they had volunteered, looking for a more stable career without having to abandon their love of violence. Either way, Adrian felt like he had seen some of them in the club before.

Down a whitewashed hallway into a quickly darkening night, a transition Adrian found amusing, considering the work that was to be done. Like an angel falling into Hell, its wings ripped from its back, a thin trail of blood detailing the horrific plunge into the abyss. His grip on the briefcases tightened until his knuckles were white, a numbing chill running down the length of his spine. He eyed the area behind the club with cautious skepticism before lifting the sleeve of his jacket to check the time. His new, chrome-plated watch read 7:50pm.

He swallowed hard, smothering the incessant nagging of his conscience with saliva.

"Let's go."

* * *

"Don't take it personally, old boy. Sometimes people want to confide in someone other than their closest friend. It doesn't necesarrily mean it's about _you_."

Flint laughed, pulled the Beretta from the hem of his jeans and pointed it squarely at Razor's chest. The hedgehog's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates behind his small yellow sunglasses, his grip on his drink loosening, sending the bottle to the concrete floor with a crash. He felt the adrenaline rush through his veins as he pulled the trigger, the pistol kicking back into his arm, a blinding light flashing from the barrel into the dull air. The hedgehog grunted, the bullet smashing against his chest. His handly slowly moved over his wound, never touching it, as the blood flowed freely across his body. With a stifled groan, he slowly hunched forward, sliding off of his stool onto the cold ground. Without a second thought, Flint hopped over the workspace to find the crimson hedgehog curled into a fetal position on the floor, a puddle slowly forming beneath him.

"Pathetic," Flint spat with a satisfied grin. Placing the sole of his boot on Razor's shoulder, he twisted him so that he was facing upward, back firmly planted against the cold floor, teeth gritted in consuming pain, eyes staring at Flint in a dazed bewilderment.

Crack! Flint pulled the trigger again. Crack crack! Razor grunted as his abdomen turned to liquid. Crack crack crack! Flint's eyes glazed with satisfaction, some of Razor's blood spattered across his cheek and onto the tip of his gun. Crack crack!

Razor's body twitched slightly, his dull yellow eyes rolled back into his head, and then there was silence.

Flint nodded. "Yea, I suppose. I'm kind of curious, though. Why wouldn't he just come to me?"

Razor shrugged, placing his beer on the workspace next to him. "Sometimes people want a different opinion than the one they ususally recieve. After a while, you can kind of start to expect what some people will say to you, so it isn't even worth asking, you know?" He removed the small sunglasses from the brim of his muzzle and rubbed them with a dirty rag. "But that's neither here nor there, now, is it?"

"Yea," Flint replied, not sure how they had digressed onto such an obscure tangent. "I need to know who you've been doing business with lately."

The slick hedgehog grinned, shaking a finger at his company. "Now now, I don't kiss and tell."

"BS -- Besides, you owe me from that time at the bar, remember?"

"Yea, right," Razor scoffed, slightly offended. "I could've taken those guys on without your help."

Flint laughed. "Right, with that much tequila in you? You couldn't have punched the _wall_ if you'd wanted to, and you know it!"

A humiliating frown crept over Razor's face as he tipped his empty beer can over with his finger, watching it slowly roll across his workspace. "Just a couple of thugs, teenagers, you know, generic scum."

Flint crossed his arms, eyes narrowing in stern interest. "You'd better not be lying to me."

As if on cue, a slight grin perked along the hedgehog's cheek. "What would I have to gain from betraying you?"

* * *

Flint closed the door to Razor's shop behind him, grunting in frustration. If there was something Razor was hiding, he wasn't going to crack, that much was certain. From what he could tell, however, the hedgehog was in the clear, and that meant his only real lead at the moment had vanished. Beaten at his own interrogation game, Flint skulked down the hallway, the door at the end sitting slightly ajar, letting a thin breath of frigid air slip through. As Flint started to turn the doorknob, he heard muted footsteps coming from outside the building. Slowly, he released the handle, leaning his head up next to the crack in the doorway to try and pick up on the conversation that was taking place below.

"You're five minutes late."

"Sorry pal, we got a little tied up getting over here."

"Whatever, do you have the goods?"

"Lemme see the letter."

There was a shifting of bodies and the sound of rustling paper before another one of them spoke.

"Alright, lemme see the cash."

Flint picked up on the distinct sound of the latches of a suitcase being undone, followed by a brief moment of silence. Then, there was a scraping sound, as if someone was dragging a large object across the concrete.

"Jesus Christ, these things weigh a ton."

"You get what you pay for, eh? Alright, are we all set? Excellent. Send your boss my regards."

"Likewise."

With the utmost caution, Flint opened the door a crack, slowly poking his muzzle out until he could just see two figures making their way down the alley towards the street. It was difficult to make out their appearance in the prevailing dark that now clouded the city, but Flint was nearly certain that one of them was wearing a blue baseball cap. After the duo was about three fourths of the way out of the alley, Flint started to follow them, careful to avoid anything that could make noise. Sticks, bottles, tin cans, the alley was like a minefield if you were trying to be sneaky. The duo had just turned the corner onto the street, Flint eyeing this as a perfect time to gain some ground on his two new targets. He picked up his pace, making it out of the alley in record time, only to find that the duo had vanished into the city somewhere. Flint stood, dumbfounded, scanning the street and finding no sign of anyone nearby.

"Great," he growled, taking out his anger on a small rock and sending it rolling across the street. Something about the meeting that had occurred in the alley seemed too convenient. Though, it was entirely possible that it had nothing to do with the EST, Retribution, or his contract at all. Yet there was a grinding feeling in the pit of his stomach that said all of them were inexplicably intertwined. He took one last look at his vicinity, his confidence slowly fading, and then started to make his way towards home.

The journey took almost an hour, which gave Flint plenty of time to think over the day's events. His anger towards Razor as well as Flame was subsiding, but still prevalent enough at the moment to cause any competing thoughts about his contract or Retribution to be quickly subdued. Again, something about Razor's demeanor and his revelation about Flame's private visits seemed too convenient. He was beginning to wonder if the whole thing wasn't a setup by the ex-DL's trying to mess with his head. Did anyone else know that he and Flame had gotten a contract? Recalling that afternoon, Flint had no reason to believe that anyone other than he, Flame, and the EST were in on them. At least, no figures stood out in his memory.

The media? It was possible that the woman in Winterfield's office had called up some of her colleagues, got them to trail Flame and himself to try and stir up the hornet's nest, but that seemed too over the top, even for them. No, perhaps everything was just thought, and the meeting outside Razor's shop was just a bunch of punk-ass teenagers trading drugs or contraband, or splitting the loot after a robbery. Flint knew he had to surrender to the idea that nothing that had happened today was connected in any way, not only because it seemed valid, but because it was the only way he would be able to keep himself sane for the walk home.

The city was enveloped in darkness, the dull flickering of broken street lamps offering small increments of relief every few yards. Inside the flats, visibility was even lower, and Flint's feet seemed twice as large as he stumbled up the staircase, cursing and threatening the wooden floorboards for making his day miserable. Inside, the situation only became worse when he saw Flame sitting innocently on their green couch reading a dull, rotting book. Flint stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him, stifling an urge to laugh as his partner almost jumped three feet into the air.

"Jesus, Flint," Flame said between frantic breaths, his face beginning to flush from embarassment, "Why'd you have to go and do that?"

Flint scowled at his partner, making his way towards the kitchen without a word, only the sound of his boots striking the floor breaking the tense silence.

"So, um," Flame hesitated, watching his partner move across the room with guarded curiosity, "What did Razor have to say?"

"Not much."

Flame's eyes narrowed in concern. "Then what's wrong?"

The telephone interrupted their conversation, clanging like a pair of cymbals on the counter next to Flint. He eyed the reciever for a few seconds before picking it up.

"This is Flint."

"Flint. This is Lance Corporal Everson. I'm Constable Winterfield's subordinate."

"So?"

"So, heh, yes, we need you down at EST HQ as soon as possible."

"What for?"

"Some of our boys found someone who may be of use to us, but we're going to need your assistance to get him to cooperate, understand?"

A devilish grin slowly creeped up Flint's muzzle. "Boy, you picked the perfect time to call me up."


	7. VI

Time passes slowest only when you wish it wouldn't. Flame found the statement to be particularly valid as he listened in painful silence to the calculated tick of the clock that hung in the waiting room of the hospital. He ran his hands across his face and rested them on the back of his neck, inhaling deeply to find the air around him saturated with the stench of blood and sweat. An unsteady sigh escaped his lungs as he clawed desperately inwards for something that could comfort him. Finding nothing, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore reality.

"Is he going to be alright?"

Awkward silence. Damn doctors and their need to sugercoat everything.

"He's lost a lot of blood, but he should be alright. The bullet just barely missed his heart. To tell you the truth," the doctor turned on his heels and continued as he started to walk away, "It's a miracle that he's even breathing."

Down the hallway, first left, third door on the right; with an unsteady hand Flame opened the door to his partner's room and peeked inside. The room seemed covered in latex, shimmering with an unnatural clean that made Flame wrench. Perhaps it was because it made for such a stark contrast, the pure, untainted walls of a hospital against his twisted psyche. On one side of the room sat a tall, metal closet, a few non-descript notepads attached to the doors, medical jargon he didn't pretend to know how to read. On the opposite side of the room was a medical bed surrounded by various devices sinister in appearance yet docile in function.

He took a few hesitant steps forward, unsure of just how he would react to seeing his partner's condition. Already he could feel something welling up inside him as he approached the white-clothed bed, a slow, methodical beeping emanating from the heart monitor creating a perfect metronome to time his shallow breathing. He knelt next to the bed, his partner sleeping peacefully, as if nothing was out of place to begin with. It was unnerving to see him so docile after what had transpired, and even though the doctor had said that he was going to be alright, a feeling inside of Flame told him that there was something being hidden from him, a horrible revelation that everyone felt he didn't need to be informed about.

Flint was dying.

He choked back a pang of emotion, whispered , "Flint." There was no response.

"Flint," he said with more force. Already it seemed as if Flint was dead, despite the reassurance from the medical devices that his heart still beat with the same vigor as it had before. And yet the dark recesses of his mind convinced him of the contrary, and Flame was having an increasingly difficult time discerning between the two. For a brief moment, he wondered if the whole experience was real -- reaching out his hand and placing it on Flint's head, the feel of his warm fur against his palm reassuring him to some extent.

"Jesus Christ, Flint, what the fuck were you thinking?" The torrents of emotions that Flame had been suppressing were resuming their slow trek back up into his throat, and this time Flame was powerless to stop them. His hand curled into a fist, clenching tightly into itself until his knuckles turned white. "If I had just stopped you…" The monitor behind him chimed with relentless consistency, mocking him , reminding him of the things he couldn't have, his partner dying while he was frozen with indecision. "All your fault, all your fault," Flame repeated through a dry, chafed throat.

"All your fault, all your fault."

Flame wheeled around to find a grotesque figure hovering over him, his face shrouded by his own shadows, only his dull green eyes and sharpened teeth jutting from his sinister grin visible beyond the darkness. It inhaled deeply through the cavities between its teeth, creating a hideous scraping noise like a sawblade on concrete, and then exhaled through its nose, only to repeat the process with mathematical consistency.

His voice was as shrill as his breathing. "You just can't get it right can you, Flame? Always gotta mess everything up. Ah, God, that's so like you."

"Wh…wha…who are you," Flame stuttered, his tongue feeling twice its size.

"Why, don't you remember me?" The figure put his hand to his chest and pressed into it until his rib cage cracked, a torrent of black blood spreading down his forearm and stomach and legs. A putrifying stench tugged at Flint's senses as the figure reached his hand into his chest, pulling out a glimmering chrome revolver in his blood-soaked palm.

"I'm your best friend, Flame." He inhaled sharply as he pointed the weapon at Flint, pulling the trigger and splattering the young echidna's head across the wall and floor.

Flame's eyes widened in diseblief. "Flint?"

Blood stains on white sheets. The smell of putrid decay.

"Flint!" He moved his hands over his partner's body, never touching it, a thousand voices screaming in his head, clouding his judgment. "Flint!"

The figure chuckled, a trickle of his own blood seeping over his lower lip. "It's time you forgot about that pile of garbage, Flame, start concentrating on what's important." He slipped the revolver back into his chest, the gaping wound producing an unimaginable amount of fluid that had completely stained the front of his body, legs, feet, and now created a crimson pool below him that grew with a slow, constant motion like syrup. "I'm here to save you."

Flame shook with rage, gripping the bedsheets and clenching his fists until they turned a milky white. "From what?"

The figure inhaled. "From you."

He shouted and threw his fist backward, striking the heart monitor with unnatural force. He winced as the glass shattered around his hand, the well-timed chimes slowly fading as he began to bleed into the hardware. The pain shook him from his nightmare, his eyes darting about the room in guarded terror as he gingerly removed his hand from the machine, shards of glass protruding like steeples from the corners of his palm. He tugged at one of them with care as two doctors in white coats rushed into the room.

"What the hell happened?"

Flame ripped the shard from his hand, letting the blood drip onto the white tile floor.

* * *

The Lance Corporal was smaller than Flint had expected, making his military posture marginally less intimidating. The crimson-colored echidna strode towards he and his partner as if he were lighter than air, sizing them up with light blue eyes as he approached.

"Glad to see you could make it on such short notice," the uniformed echidna said with a grin, shaking Flint's hand as if he were some kind of tour guide. "Welcome to the Holding and Interrogation wing of EST HQ."

"Let's make this quick," Flint stated with a hint of spite. "I'd really like to get some sleep."

"Of course, of course, follow me." He motioned to Flint and Flame to accompany him down a dull-colored, ill-lit hallway lined with imposing sound-proof doors. The carpeted walls made the soldier's footsteps more muted as he clicked along in a common military strut. Flint recalled Razor's comment on the EST, and stifled a small grin. About twenty yards further stood two uniformed soldiers, each one armed with a semiautomatic pistol and a piercing glare that could turn water into ice. They snapped to attention as the Lance Corporal neared them, tossing up a quick, dignified salute which Everson promptly returned. He motioned for the two to enter the door adjacent to the one they were posted to guard, and in a few moments one of them returned with a manilla envelope, handing it to Everson.

"This is the information we know about this man," he stated as he scanned over the papers clipped inside the envelope, "Basically all we're looking for right now is any new information."

Flame interjected. "So you already know he's guilty?"

"That's correct," the Lance Corporal replied, still engrossed in his reading. After a few moments the soldier closed the envelop and handed it to Flint. "Me and my men will be in the next room recording the conversation. I'll give you two a few minutes to prepare—"

"We're ready," Flint interrupted, opening the envelop and taking a quick glance at the criminal's dossier. Attached to his biography was a dirty black-and-white mugshot. The man looked like a killer: deep, troubled eyes, rugged complexion, fur frayed and matted like it hadn't been washed in weeks; your typical badass who got too cocky.

Everson grinned. "Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me…" the Lance Corporal made a slight bow and then entered the recording room. Once the door was shut and locked, Flint spoke.

"This is not how I feel like spending the evening."

Flame nodded. "Just don't go too nuts on this guy, alright? He needs to look decent for his sentencing."

"Whatever," Flint spat, tucking the envelop under one arm and opening the door marked with a large, dark blue 17. Inside the off-grey walls were polished to an impressive shine, a small, folding table set up in the far corner. Next to it, the criminal, clad in a bright orange jumpsuit, was bound to a small, unconfortable steel chair by his hands and feet. He said nothing as they entered, content to stare at his bare feet in morbid silence. The man was much frailer than the picture had led both of them to believe, and didn't seem interested in a struggle. Already Flame could pinpoint some bumps and bruises where he had presumably been roughed up by the guards. Flame sensed something was amiss as his partner paced towards him, kneeling down so they were eye to eye.

"Evening," Flint said in a calm tone. "How are you?" The man didn't even notice his presence, tracing a line across the floor with his big toe. "My name's Flint, and I'm going to be asking you a few questions." He took the manilla folder from under his arm and handed it to Flame, who took it over to the table and sat down. "Now, the EST has informed me that you're involved with a certaing group calling itself 'Retribution.'" No response. "And that you were also involved with the murder of about a dozen soldiers." Abject silence. Flint let out a strong sigh of frustration and began to massage the area between his eyes. "Look, you're probably tired and pissed off right now, and so am I. So let's not make this more difficult than it has to be."

The man raised his head so his eyes were level with Flint's. They gleamed with an intensity that even caught Flint off guard. "I'm not talking to any soldiers, you got that?"

Flint grinned. "Well I'm not a soldier, so that shouldn't be a problem." He watched with a certain amount of satisfaction as the man's glare slowly faded. Turning on his heels, he walked over to the table and picked up the manilla envlope, eyeing the first page as he took up a position behind the criminal. "It's a simple game, and there are two ways to play it. There's an easy way, and then there's an even easier way." He leaned up next to the criminal's ear. "And I'll tell you right now, the easy way is a helluva lot less painful. So why don't we get started." He straightened his back and picked out the first piece of information from the dossier.

"Name?"

Silence. The criminal sat with a thousand-yard gaze, flexing his toes in heroic protest.

"Name?"

Flint slapped the envelope shut, twisted his body and planted a perfect side kick into the man's head. A soft thud, followed by a terrified grunt, and the the chair tipped onto its side, dragging the man to the floor. A muffled groan escaped the prisoner's lips as he lay pinned to the cold floor by his own weight, writhing back and forth to try and alleviate the pain that shot through his upper body.

"These are the easy questions, mate," Flint said with a slight chuckle. "If we're having problems now, I can't imagine how hard it's going to get later on." The prisoner stifled another painful groan and relaxed body, submitting to gravity. Flint leaned down and gripped the chair, forcibly standing it upright along with the prisoner, whose right nostril now produced a small trickle of blood.

"You really don't wanna get me mad. I don't think your body could take it. So let's try this one more time: state your name."

The criminal was silent for a brief moment, struggling with the voices inside himself that told him to hang on. "Ian," he finally submitted with an exasperated voice, "My name is Ian."

"How old are you, Ian?"

"I'm…I'm 27."

Flint paced slowly around the prisoner, who kept his eyes glued to the ground in front of him as he answered each of Flint's questions.

"How long have you been held by the EST?"

"About a year or so. I lost count."

"When did you join the DL?"

Ian hesitated, Flint studying his posture, his lower lip, his eye movement, anything that would give him a sign as to the validity of his statements.

"Like, three years ago or something. I couldn't point out the exact date."

"Why'd you join up?"

Silence.

"It's not a trick question, Ian. Why did you sign up?"

"I…I don't know."

"You agree with their ideals?"

"I suppose so."

"Aren't you a piece of work," Flint spat. "You have any family? I bet their dumb as hell, just like you."

"Why the hell would you care," Ian growled.

Flint stopped right in front of the prisoner. "I asked you a damn question! Do you have any family?"

"Fuck you!"

Flint gritted his teeth, gripping the back of Ian's chair and tossing it forward with as much force as he could muster. He heard Ian yelp just before his face hit the floor with a crack, the back of the chair pinning his neck to the ground in an unnatural position. Without a moments hesitation, Flint drove the toe of his boot into Ian's stomach, receiving an agonizing growl in response. Ian curled against the chair, his bound arms and legs preventing him from doubling over in pain. Thud! Flint planted his heel into Ian's ribs.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that," Flint said, cracking his knuckles as he stood over his victim. Ian looked up at him from the corner of his eye, a terrible grin forming on his lips as he raised his middle finger from behind the chair.

"You just don't learn."

He grabbed the back of Ian's chair. "Open the door," he barked at Flame, who quickly obeyed, holding open the exit door as Flame dragged his prisoner into the hallway. Outside, the Lance Corporal and his guards exited the recording room and watched him with disbelief as the legs of the steel chair scraped across the hard floor behind him.

He stopped next to Everson, eyeing the door at the end of the hallway with interest. "Where's that door go to," he asked.

"That leads to the storage basement. It's got stairs, so I don't think you –"

"How many stairs?"

Everson seemed stunned by the inquiry. "I'm not sure…I suppose about twenty."

Flint shrugged. "I suppose that will do. Thirty would've been better." With a tug he got Ian's chair to move again, the sound of steel on tile enough to make glass shatter. "Ever taken a fall down a flight of stairs, Ian," Flint shouted over the noise. Ian looked as if he were staring at death square in the face. "It's not a pretty ordeal. A good friend of mine took a spill down one once. Broke a kneecap, arm, collarbone, and two ribs." He looked back at his shaking captive and sneered. "But he wasn't tied to a chair." Once they were at the doorway, Flint dropped the chair on its back, Ian shouting in pain as his head hit the tile floor. Flint propped open the door with one foot, leaned down and lifted Ian up so he was facing the doorway, and the starway that seemed to drop without end into a black void.

"That's a long way down," Flint whisteled, admiring the imposing fall before him. He crossed his arms over his chest, giving Ian a few moments of tense silence to think over his options, the same expression as a deer in a car's headlights plastered behind his blood-stained muzzle.

"Tell me what you know," Flint ordered. Silence as Ian stared blankly at the doorway. "Wrong answer."

"Dogwood," Ian yelped as Flint pushed the chair towards the starway. "Dogwood!"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It's a name it's a name," Ian pleaded, his words muddled together as he spoke frantically. "A codename, someone told me 'dogwood dogwood' that's his name."

"Where can I find this 'Dogwood'?"

Ian hesitated, eyes glazing back into a lifeless stare. Flint leaned the chair onto its front legs so Ian's center of gravity was placed precariously over the edge.

"Holy hell!"

"Where is he?"

"I…I don't know!"

Flint let go of the back of the chair, Ian gasping in terror as he began to tip forward into the abyss. Just as he was about to take the final plunge, Flint grabbed the back legs of the chair and held him fast.

"Oh god, goddammit!" Ian shut his eyes tight, a bead of sweat dripping from one of his locks onto the first stair.

"I can't hold on much longer," Flint told him.

"Th…the warehouse," Ian finally snapped, "Just outside of B-District. Dogwood, I swear to God he's there pull me back up."

"Don't lie to me, Ian!"

"Goddammit pull me back up!"

He grunted as he pulled the chair back into stasis, letting the back legs hit the floor with a jolt. Ian was breathing heavily, eyes clenched shut, a small trickle of blood forming over his lower lip where he had been biting it. Flint knelt down behind him, putting his hands on his shoulders as he spoke. "If you're wrong, you'd better hope I don't find you." The sound of Ian's hard swallow was enough of an aswer, Flint rising to his feet and leaving him with the Lance Corporal and his guards.

Flame had stayed by the room during the ordeal, and he eyed his partner with disdain as he approached.

"You didn't have to go that dar, did you?"

"Whatever," Flint shrugged, the two of them making their way towards the exit.

"So what's the plan now," Flint inquired.

"It's time to give this 'Dogwood' character our humble regards."


	8. VII

Author's Note: Those of you who have followed this story will notice that the rating has been increased. Since I began posting this story on this website, it has been my goal to ensure that it can be read by a large audience. To accomplish this, I have edited as much violence and language as I could without losing the shock value of the novelette. However, there are portion of this chapter that were necesarry and too gruesome to be allowed a T rating (at least in my opinion). The last thing I wanna do is push the line and get my stuff deleted. For concerned parents, I will continue editing the content as I have before. Sorry for the interruption : )

"Something's bothering you."

Flint paused, his hand clasped around the doorknob, the other holding a bronze-colored key in one of the door locks. Staring blankly into the unopened door, he mused over what series of words would best describe his situation.

"Fuck." He twisted the doorknob and slid his keys into his jacket pocket, the door creaking on its rusty hinges, groaning like an old woman who had broken every bone in her body. Working the jacket off his back, he tossed it onto the coat hanger and rushed his way towards the kitchen, eager for a healthy dose of alcohol to drown in. He bent down into the fridge and grabbed a bottle, turning to see Flame leaning on the kitchen counter, his face flush with irritation and concern.

"You're not gonna tell me?"

Flint scowled. "You never told me, either." He twisted the cap and tossed it to the floor, tipping the bottle back into his mouth and letting the bitter liquid wash his mind clean. Razor was right, this stuff was crap compared to what he had at the shop.

Flame watched him in silence as he shuffled into the bedroom, setting himself down on the edge of the bed. As Flint started to remove his shoes, Flame wondered if it this was the best time to put all of his cards on the table. An electric surge of tension shot through him as he sat down next to his partner, who tossed one of his boots into the corner as if Flame wasn't in the room. He brought his knees up to his chest and watched Flint untie his boot, holding the top of his bottle between his teeth, eyes narrowed in frustration, and couldn't help but find him attractive.

"What are you looking at?" Flint snarled, the bottle still dangling from between his lips. Flame blushed and averted his gaze, beating himself up for being so careless. He waited until Flint had slipped off his shirt and started sliding back into the bed before he spoke again.

"So…you're just not going to tell me," he asked, unable to hide the sadness behind his voice. His partner was silent as he slid under the dark covers, taking another swig before setting the bottle next to the bed.

"You went to Razor's without me?"

Flame sighed. He had a vague idea that this was what was troubling Flint, and knew he had a habit of blowing things out of proportion. "I just went to talk. Nothing else."

"What, you can't just talk to me?"

He shut his eyes and hugged his knees tighter. "It's…not like that."

"Whatever," Flint snorted, pulling the covers up to his chin and closing his eyes, clinging desperately to the hope that tomorrow would be less frustrating than today was.

Flame turned with hesitation, watching Flint curl into the bedsheets, appearing so calm and innocent in the dim moonlight that filtered through the blinds. He felt a sudden urge to crawl up next to him, wrap his arms around him tightly, nestle his head into the crook of his neck and just pretend the whole ordeal had never transpired. But he could only imagine the kind of psychotic reaction he would receive for doing so, the stark reality cutting him to the core. With an unsteady sigh, he removed his jacket and shoes, tossed them to the ground and laid down on the opposite side of the bed, the tension creating an impenetrable void forcing him to the edge of reason. He clenched his eyes shut, curling his knees back up to his chest, and tried to forget that everything in his life had gone to hell.

* * *

Warm, humid breath over fluttering eyelids.

Flame let out a muffled groan as he was wrestled from his sleep. Opening one eye in frustration, he spotted a small kitsune kneeling over him, his light golden fur seeming to glow in the morning light. The young fox peered at him with naïve curiosity, brushing the small tuft of hair that grew out over his forehead and matted against his eyes. Thoroughly confused, Flame propped his upper body up on one elbow, shading his eyes from the light with one hand.

"What the hell?"

The young fox cocked his head to one side. "Who are you?"

Flame raised en eyebrow at the child as he stood, brushing the dirt off of his knees. It was then that Flame noticed the kitsune's right eye was missing, the socket gaping out of his head like the toothless mouth of a wailing child. There were scratches and scars all along the young boy's lender frame, his feet bare and covered in calices and cuts that opened their glistening mouths to the wet air. The young fox watched him with child-like interest, studying his every move as if it were something foreign and perculiar to him. With a grunt, Flame climbed to his feet on the sharp gravel ground, wicing as the small shards of rock cut into his feet.

Flame raised a hand to shield his eyes from the imposing sunlight. "Where am I?"

The sky was a deep orange like a sunset, yet the sun hung at the apex of the sky. Jagged, alien peaks shot up from the ground in the distance and pierced the skyline like knives. Flame's body began to sweat in the overly-humid air, but the young kitsune didn't seem to notice.

"Where am I," he repeated, the fox cocking his head to one side.

"We are the hollow men." His voice was muffled and coarse, like someone had scraped his vocal chords with sandpaper and let them bleed dry in his throat. He turned on his heels and shuffled towards the horizon without another word, taking a quick glance back at Flame once he was a few yards away. Flame began to follow him with guarded curiosity, making a conscious effort to keep a few yards between him and his tour guide. The sun beat down on him relentlessly, and after only a few minutes of walking Flame felt compelled to strip off his shirt, leaving him with only a pair of jeans to shield his body from the elements. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he shouted to the fox once more.

"Where are you taking me?"

The young boy stopped, his back facing Flame as he spoke. "As wind in dry grass…"

"What?"

The boy turned his head, his gaze lowered to the ground. "Or rat's feet over broken glass." He resumed his trek, gesturing without motion for Flame to follow. He reluctantly complied, not sure why he trusted this young boy. He had cared enough to watch him while he slept at least, and Flame couldn't remember seeing anyone else nearby.

Nothing in every direction, only blank, pitiless gravel that tore at his feet as he walked. The question ran through his mind once more, and he was tempted to try and wrestle an actual answer from the young fox once more. He winced, bending down to pick a small piece of gravel from the sole of his foot, and when he stood back up he found that the young fox had disappeared, and something else had taken his place.

Eyes he dared not meet in dreams.

* * *

He sat, perched on a rather large boulder that baked under the sun. The heat didn't bother him much anymore as he stared into the bleak, orange horizon, hands clasped around one knee in meditative silence. Grease sat next to him, equally silent save the rotten sound of air passing between his jagged teeth.

Grease, or at least that's what Flame had come to call him. He had said that his name couldn't be pronounced with Flame's vocal chords, so he'd given him the nickname because of his unusual complexion. He was a tall, lanky echidna, dark red fur, almost black with small shimmers of crimson that stood out in the sunlight. His eyes were a sharp green, the kind that turned your insides to ice; a cold, merciless stare that Flame couldn't help but admire. A ragged black cloak was draped over his body, and he had a long, wooden staff that he perched his hands and chin on.

"What is this place?" Flame asked, resting his chin on his knee.

"This is death's dream kingdom," Grease croaked through his teeth. "The end of the line. You're a lucky one, Flame, to be able to see this place."

"Fantastic," he replied with little enthusiasm.

"It is a fantastic gift," Grease replied, eyeing his visitor with modest concern. "To be able to witness the aftermath of death and still be within the realm of the living. Of all the people alive you are the only one who can best understand what it means to be so."

"I don't want it."

"What?"

Flame grimaced, adding a hint of spite to his voice. "I said, 'I don't want it.'"

Grease narrowed his eyelids, the green orbs perched behind them glowing with irritation.

Flame felt compelled to continue. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of all of these dreams, these premonitions, and all of this worrying!" He turned a hateful eye towards Grease. "And it's all your fucking fault!"

"I don't expect you to understand," Grease replied with fatherly reassurance. "But I do expect you to trust me."

"Screw you," the green echidna exclaimed, tossing his hand across the air between them as if to swat away his words, "Screw you and your bullshit! If I wanted your damn help I would've asked for it."

Grease glared at the visitor as he stood and took a few heated steps forward, crossing his arms over his chest like a pouting infant. "And you would prefer the alternative?" He paused, allowing Flame to fully digest the question before he continued. "Living in blind ignorance, does that suit you? Scraping your way through life like a naïve child?" His anger began to emanate through his slithering voice. "You have no idea what's in store for you down the road. But I do, and I have the power to help you avoid it."

Silence. Grease smirked, confident that he had left an impression on the young echidna, whose body began to shake softly. A whimper escaped Flame's lips, steadily growing in volume as he spoke.

"I can't believe this," he snickered, "I can't freaking believe this!"

Grease's confidence quickly faded. "Believe what?"

Flame turned, his face tightened from laugher. "You don't exist! You're just some figment of my imagination! I've been so stupid!"

The dark echidna's fists clenched in rage. "Is that so?"

Howling with laughter, Flame was unaware of the quickness with which is companion moved. Behaving as the wind, Grease flung himself at Flame with unnatural speed and dexterity, his green eyes glimmering with rage as he drove his hand into Flame's stomach, the tips of his fingers slowly piercing through his fur and skin. Grease smirked, pressing his body up against Flame's, spraying musky breath into his gritted teeth, widening eyes and tensing body.

"Some imagination you have there," he growled, twisting his hand as it probed deeper into the green echidna's body. Flame let out a muffled moan, eyes fixated on his assailant with painful consistency as he clawed at Grease's arm with quivering hands. "There are things you won't be able to understand about what I do, Flame, but you'll just have to accept that." Trails of blood began to flow down Flame's abdomen as he cried out in agony. "What you believe is irrelevant, what you want is irrelevant." Flame fell to his knees in blinding pain as Grease's fingers probed deeper into him like maggots, neither ripping nor tearing, only exploring his innards with neurotic curiosity. "I may have to drag you kicking and screaming, but in the end you will thank me, Flame. You will thank me!"

He snapped, his stomach and thighs drenched in his own blood, his mouth tasting of bile. Grease's eyes seemed to spill with contempt, glowing like sunlight on a broken column. He howled, cried out for the first person that came to his mind.

"Flint!"

A voice echoed back, distant at first but slowly growing in intensity. Grease removed his hand, Flame falling onto his back in exhausted agony. The bright sky blinded him with a warming glow as he felt two hands grasp his shoulder and shake him, the calm, concerned voice beginning to chant his name.

"Flame, what's wrong?"

The sunlight strained his eyes. A light touch to his shoulder sent him into a panicked leap, his head making contact with the wall. He yelped in pain, rubbing the back of his head with a clammy palm as he struggled to control his panicked breathing. Flint was hovering over him with sympathetic concern, a hand on either side of Flame's body so that they were only a few feet apart.

Flame found it difficult to breathe again.

* * *

They could see the warehouse from the third story window across the street, the shades tilted enough to conceal their presence without blocking their line of sight. Inside, the air wreaked of old booze and sex. For a moment, Flint tried to imagine the kind of escapades that may have taken place in the exact spot he sat, feeling a pang of nausea flow over him as he did.

"This place is a hell-hole," Flint said, his voice echoing off the empty walls. Everything: the furniture, the carpet, the wallpaper, even the tiny nails and screws that once held ornate portraits and valuable china, had been stripped from the area. When he had first inquired about the previous occupants of the room, the landlord simply snorted and walked away, content to have made a few extra dollars by renting the abandoned room out for a few days. So here they sat, watching the sidewalks for any sign of suspicious activity near the old warehouse Ian had mentioned. "I don't know if I can handle staying here for the next few days. These punks better pick up the pace."

Flame snickered, opening the small cooler they had brought with them and pulling out two beers. He tossed one to Flint, then used his shirt to twist off the cap. "All part of the contract, I guess. Besides," he tipped his head back and sucked down a few gulps, "now we have plenty of qualty time to spend together."

"Fantastic." Flint rolled his eyes and sipped on his beer silently, the sunlight casting off-white bars across his face as he stared out the dusty window.

Something about the situation seemed a bit too perfect. He was interested in finding out why Flame had gone and talked to Razor without him, as well as what they had talked about. Now seemed like the most opportune moment to inquire, but that fact caused him to hesitate. Both of them were stuck in this one room, by this one rotting window, for God only knew how long; could either of them bear the awkwardness of this kind of a conversation? Perhaps it was best to just let it slide, talk about something less personal. Maybe discuss the contract a bit more.

"So what did you talk to Razor about?"

Flame didn't flinch, but inside he panicked. A feeble attempt at masking his sudden embarassment led him to take an unsteady sip of his beer. He felt his partner's gaze piercing into him as he spoke.

"What…it…it was nothing, really."

Flint raised an eyebrow. "Nothing? I find that really hard to believe."

"Nothing…nothing that concerned you…" He cursed himself. This kind of deceit had a habit of wrecking relationships. And yet he felt compelled to cover up his conversations to maintain the calm and friendly atmosphere that once inhabited the musky air. "I don't wanna talk about it right now. It's…not important."

There were a few seconds of awkward silence as Flint turned his body so he was facing the small bars of warm light. He closed his eyes, speaking as calmly as possible. "Did it have to do with the dreams you've been having?"

Flame almost cheered with delight. Finally, a small portion of the conversation he didn't have to lie about. "No, it doesn't have anything to do with that. Not with that at all." Some of the tension seemed to dissapate, and both of them relaxed as a result, taking intermittent drinks while watching the anonymous citizens below go about their business, unaware of the prying eyes that stalked them along the way. For a moment, Flame felt a pang of guilt for it, averting his gaze to the peels of paint that marked the rotting window pane. He slowly reached out and peeled a small portion off, examining it between his index finger and thumb with a curious eye. He pressed the paint chip between his fingers, crushing it into tiny pieces and dusting them onto the ground next to him.

Outside, he saw a young couple share a brief, playful kiss before parting ways, and the sight make him sick to his stomach.


	9. VIII

"…So he walks up to this soldier, and the kid looked like he's just got his stuff together, you know, like he had just signed the enlistment papers about an hour ago and then tossed him a uniform. Anyway, he walks up to this guy, he's standing about six inches from his face, wreaking of booze like nobody's business, and screams, 'Christ, son, if I order you to take a dump in your boots, you'd better start squatting!'"

Flame doubled over in laughter, clutching at his sides as if his stomach would explode. The empty room echoed all afternoon with witty commentary, sexual innuendos, and personal anecdotes as the two struggled to pass the aching hours stopped like pigeons at the windowsill, the filtered white light becoming a deep orange as the sun set over the tops of the high-rises, sinking like a dommed ship into the bottomless ocean of steel and concrete that hugged the skyline. They sat on opposing sides of the window, the traffic of the streets beginning to fade with the waning of the sun.

Flint let out one last emphatic sigh. "Damn, that kid was hilarious." Without warning, Flint's eyes glazed out into a thousand-yard stare, his voice seeming detatched from his mouth. "What ever happened to him?"

"Don't you remember?" Flame said, his partner shaking his head in response. The words came out unevenly, the jovial atmosphere devoured by the harsh reality. "Raped and murdered just outside of his house; slashed across the neck."

"Christ." A moment of silence, either out of remorse or because of the delicate tension that wrapped itself around the conversation. "He was only, what, sixteen?"

"Something like that." Flame cursed himself for even bringing it up. He raised his half-empty bottle of beer and swirled the contents, studying the liquid as it foamed and tossed about.

"I miss those days, though," Flint said, scratching an itch that surfaced where his neck and shoulder met. "Working with the guys. You know, back when we didn't get all caught up in the politics."

His partner nodded, downing the rest of his beer and rolling the bottle across the cold floor and into the shadows.

"Just get the job, get it done, take the check; Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.

"They were like family, those guys. Always ready to help you out when you needed it, even if it wasn't in their best interests. Those are the kinds of people you want to associate yourself with. Everyone's looking out for themselves, asking 'What's in it for me?' and what not. It's total bull. You've gotta be able to communicate, put all the cards out on the table, and trust that the guy sitting next to you isn't going to blow your head off or something." He chuckled, turning to his partner and expecting more laughter in return. Instead, Flame had his knees hugged to his chest, eyes staring with zealous intensity beyond the darkness of the room into infinity. He instantly recognized something was amiss and inched closer, his partner poised solid like a statue as he did. "What's wrong, man?" Flint asked, caught off guard by the sudden mood swing he was experiencing. Flame was known for being capricious sometimes, and this was a small yet significant step further.

"I never told you about my family." His voice was soft and timid, eyes locked as if unaware of his presence.

Flint had trouble forming a response. "Um, no, I guess you didn't."

Flame's eyes lowered and centered in on the tips of his boots as if his life story was written on them. "I grew up in B-District, back before the conflict and before it turned into the mess it is today. My parents were well off, able to afford putting me through some pretty good schools. My dad wanted me to be a writer." Flint laughed with a sick desperation. "And look at how that's turned out, eh?"

Flint smiled, relieved that his partner could still maintain a slight sense of humor. "What happened?"

"The conflict started and we had to leave home, which was right in the wrecking ball's way. You remember everything about that: total chaos, bombs dropping everywhere. The shit hit the fan and my parents and I were stuck in the middle of it. My father tried to lead my mother and I across the crowded square, and a mortar shell hit right next to us. I got knocked a few feet, got a nice scar across my left leg." He traced the path over his jeans. "When the smoke cleared, I struggled to my feet and found my mother hunched over my father. He was bleding like mad, the shell basically taking off his lower body." Flame's voice began to crack. "He said something to my mother, who was bawling, but I couldn't pick up what it was. It must've been some kind of 'I love you' or 'take care of our son' or something, because she was a total wreck after he said it, and so was I. He looked at me and smiled, and all of the blood…" He paused. "The blood had stained his mouth a putrid crimson. It was horrific. All around us, blood, sweat, and tears; toil of the damned. We tried to stay together, we really did, but it was like fighting against the current of a massive river. I ended up huddling in the corner of a convenience store until an EST soldier found me."

Flint was now able to understand his partner's erratic mood swings and unusual behavior. He turned so his body was parallel to Flame's but facing the opposite direction, their faces only a few feet from each other as Flame continued.

"I didn't know where to go or what to do. The EST gave me some food and water, but I ended up alone again. So I made my way back towards our house, across the wreckage that used to be our neighborhood. There were still soldiers scattered about, doing God knows what. I ignored them, and they ignored me. I figured our home was the first place my mother would go to after everything had settled down.

"It was hit bad. The whole building has collapsed in on itself as if it were made of cards. So I waited an hour, which turned into two, into four, one day, two days…" He brushed the top of his hand across his nose. "I found my Dad's revolver, along with some of the old books he had been reading. I gathered them up, took a seat outside, and decided I was going to kill myself." He stared at Flint, eyes dilated and inoocent like a small, helpless animal. "And that's when you showed up."

Flint smirked and patted his partner's knee. "You didn't turn out too bad. Your parents would be proud of you, I'm sure."

"Yea," Flame replied with a slight smile. "Not much in the way of consolation, I'm afraid. But thanks for the effort. Hey, what about you? You never told me about your family."

Three figures in black trench coats made their way into the warehouse below.

"They're here." Flint grabbed his jacket and slipped it over his shoulders. As Flame regained his composure, he made sure he had a full magazine in his Beretta, slipped two more into his jean pockets, checked that the safety was on, and slid the barrel into the front of his jeans. His partner had his father's revolver in one hand, the empty cylinder tipped open as he slid six bullets into the tubes. They were in front of the warehouse in under a minute.

Inside the air was humid and wreaked of sweat, twin beams of light crossing in the air above them as the sunlight filtered through the windows in the thirty-foot high ceiling. The main portion of the warehouse was filled with nondescript wooden crates, a large area at the entrance cleared away. To their right, a rough-looking hedgehog eyed a centerfold of pornography with smug interest as he sat on a dilapidated loveseat, taking a quick moment to glance at them as they entered. On the other side of the clearing, two echidna dressed in black trench coats had started a game of ping pong on a rotting table, the rythmic click-clop of the plastic ball like a drill against Flint's temples. And just ahead of them, a brutish fox had his legs crossed on a card table, his dull blue eyes following them as they shut the large steel doors behind them.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

"Can I help you two?" The dark-furred canine inquired with a hint of irritation, placing his feet on the ground.

Clip. Clop.

Flint took a step forward, his fists in his jacket to cover up his firearm. "I'm looking for someone."

Clip. Clop.

The fox smirked, the dull scar across his right eye crimping with the folds of his muzzle. "Aren't we all? So does this mystery man have a name?"

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

"A nickname of sorts."

"Is that so?"

Clip. Clop.

"Dogwood."

No more clips. No more clops. The two men in trench coats set their paddles down and looked at Flint, the hedgehog closing his smut and tossing it behind the couch. The kitsune also came to his feet, standing at least seven inches taller than Flint and much wider.

"The boss won't talk to just anybody, you know. What makes you so special?"

"I can kick your ass."

The fox laughed, arching his shoulders and letting his trench coat slide off. Underneath he wore tactical pants, steel-toed boots, a tight grey shirt and enough brawn to put most soldiers to shame. "You've got a lot of guts, kid, but you've got a big mouth."

"If I'm talking too much, feel free to shut me up."

With a grunt, the fox lunged at Flint, throwing his right fist at the young echidna's face. Flint slid to avoid the strike, his opponent quickly regaining his footing and twisting to face him. No one else in the room made any attempt to help, as if it were an unspoken rule in this dojo of steel and aluminum. They walked in a perfect circle around each other, adjusting their stance with every twitch of the body, every uneven breath triggering a response. The fox dipped down and slid his foot across the floor, knocking Flint's feet out from under him and sending him flying sideways into the concrete floor. He caught himself on his hands and rolled to the side, using his momentum to thrust himself at his opponent, landing a firm punch on his jaw. The fox stumbled slightly, throwing up his arms to guard against another surprise attack. Flint twirled his foot towards the fox's ribs. Without hesitation the fox wrapped his arm around Flint's leg and flung his own heel into the echidna's chin, and then twisted his arm so Flint was tossed back to the floor.

"Punk," the fox snarled through gritted teeth, towering over his pinned opponent and raising his fist and thrusting it down with as much force as me could muster.

Flint raised his hands and caught his opponent's blow. Using his outstretched arm as a pivot point, Flint twisted his lower body and brought his left leg around to the back of the fox's head. There was a sharp thump, and the his eyes widened in surprise. A muffled grunt slipped from between his teeth, and he stumbled forward. Using his opponent's momentum to his advantage, Flint turned further so he was straddling the fox's arm as he fell face-firt to the ground, and with a sharp tug and a loud pop, he dislocated the arm at the shoulder.

"God!" The fox howled in pain. "My arm! Dammit, you broke my arm!"

Flint pressed his knee into the fox's back and wrapped his right arm around his neck, pulling his Beretta out with the other.

"Now," Flint said, pressing the barrel of his weapon to the fox's head. Immediately, the two men by the ping pong began to reach into their coats.

"Not so fast," Flame said, drawing his revolver and aiming it at the two. They brandished their pistols, one aiming at Flint and the other at him. He turned and found that the hedgehog was gone.

"You're going to answer my questions, ok?" Flame continued, unphased by the stand-off.

The fox grunted and struggled to get up. "Screw you."

"Wrong answer." Flint straightened his back and removed the gun from the fox's head, pointing it at the back of his thigh and pulling the trigger. A crack, a flash, and suddenly the brawny canine was screaming in agony, his leg twitching as it poured crimson blood.

Flame straightened his aim at his two targets, but neither of them moved to aid their comrade.

"Where's Dogwood?"

The fox hesitated. "I…I don't know."

Flint pressed the gun against his other thigh, and he howled.

"No no I swear it, I don't know! They told me to do this, but it wasn't supposed to go this far!"

"What?"

The fox turned towards his two comrades, who stared back at him with blank faces. "You screwed me over, you sons of bitches! This wasn't part of the deal!"

"You're not making any sense."

The fox stared with disbelief at his partners, who made no move to come to his aid. They watched him with unnerving zeal from their comfortable position outside of danger. He growled, perplexity turning to anger. "Green Row."

"What?"

The two mens' eyes widened slightly.

The fox continued. "Green Row. Building 55. You'll find your answers there."

The one aiming at Flame turned and fired, splattering the fox's head across the cold floor. Out of instinct, Flame aimed and fired, putting a bullet in the attacker's eye and sending him reeling into the floor. Flint rolled off of the corpse below him and leaped behind the couch, followed closely by a hail of gunfire. As soon as Flint was behind cover, the echidna sprinted behind the boxes and into the darkness of the ware house.

"Great!" Flint shouted as he peeked over the edge of the couch. "Follow him!"

Flame nodded, making a dash for the darkness, gun at the ready. He followed the narrow corridor of boxes and metal crates, Flint's footsteps a faint sound behind him. He finally came to an open doorway, a blast of cool evening air thrashing at his senses as he exited into a narrow alleyway beside the ware house. A shadow moved, and he fired a bullet down the alley, a grunt and a thud confirming the hit. Once Flint had caught up they advanced on their target, who lay bleeding on the ground emitting shallow moans as he clawed at his side with a bloody hand.

Something about him jogged Flint's memory.


	10. IX

They paused for a moment, out of breath and starting to reek of sweat. Flint released one hand from the limp body of their captive to twist the doorknob, and then used his hip to push the door open; a move Flame had trouble getting out of his mind.

"Follow me," Flint said, leading the way back into their apartment. They gingerly set the unconscious echidna down on the kitchen floor, Flint retreating into the bedroom and returning with a wooden chair and some rope.

"Set him on here." Flame grunted as he struggled with the awkward body that began to slip and slide through his arms as he lifted it into the chair. Flint gave him a hand, positioning the captive in as natural a seating position as they could manage before grabbing his hands and tying them behind his back. Using the same strand of rope, he connected his hands to his ankles, and then both of them to the chair. Bracing his foot on the chair as support, Flint tugged on the end of the rope until it was taut like a guitar string, giving it a satisfied strum after he had finished the final knot.

"That should keep him there until we can question him," Flint said, taking a position next to Flame and admiring his work with a satisfied smirk. The figure was hunched over himself and breathing lightly. At first glance, one might've assumed he was dead, his dark red locks shadowing his scuffed muzzle. "I want to quick stop by Laura's again tonight before she closes, see if we can't get any ID on this guy. Did you find anything on him?"

Flame shook his head. "Nothing but the pistol and some ammo." He knelt down and inspected the rope more closely. "What if this guy wakes up?"

"Well, I kicked him pretty hard back in the alley, but I guess just to make sure." Flint drew his fist back and connected with the captive's face, a spurt of blood flying poetically from his nose.

* * *

"This is bad."

He cringed, bringing his thumb up to his lips and nibbling on the tip. It was an anxious habit he had developed over the years; something he had tried to shake off but stuck like duct tape to his skin, every attempt to remove it more painful than the last. Sitting alone in a well-furnished chair, one leg crossed over the other and a pinch of flesh between his teeth, he took every accusation tossed at him as truth without bothering to consider the fact that maybe he had done all that he could do, and that today's events were simply out of his control.

"You fucked up."

I fucked up, he repeated to himself. A knife thrust into his side.

"We had a simple operation going. So simple, and yet you've managed to screw it up somehow."

I failed. A slash across the stomach.

"And now, we have released vital components of information that could cost us the whole operation!"

A bullet to the brain. Paint the walls red and pink.

He kept his gaze low, afraid to make eye contact. He could hear a tapping on the desk in front of him, counting the seconds until his untimely demise. Life is a winner's game; losers aren't allowed to play.

"Sir, I'm afraid our only course of action is to…"

"Affirmative." A heavy sigh, and the tapping stops. "I'm going to give you this chance to redeem yourself, so don't fuck it up. Mop up the mess you made and maybe I won't have to force you to resign, understood?"

"Understood, sir." He pulled his thumb out of his mouth, a small bead of blood beginning to form on its tip. He pressed the wound to his tongue, sucking up the salty fluid that stung its way down his throat.

* * *

Flame took a quick look over his shoulder into a sea of bodies. "I feel like we're being followed." 

"You always feel like that," Flint snorted, pulling the front door to Laura's shop open. He took one step in and then turned to face his partner, who stood motionless at the doorway, hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets while his eyes gazed motionless into the crowds. "Come on, man, we don't have all day."

Flame nodded. "Yea, you're probably right."

Laura smiled from behind the counter as the two entered. "Hey you two, long time no see."

Flint shook his head, a small grin escaping as he rested one arm on the counter while he glanced through his sunglasses across the top of a sea of frosted donettes and dirty magazines towards the back of the shop. His eyes fixated on the back of a customer who was perusing the liquor selection with an intensity even Flint had to admire.

"This is about business, isn't it?"

Flint turned, receiving a tired, aggrivated look from the attractive store-owner. The door shut behind him, and he could feel Flame move behind him, pretending to browse the magazine rack while he kept an eye on the customer.

"I'll be quick; you won't even remember I was here, ok?" He tilted his head to eye the cigarette rack behind her. "And I might just buy a pack while I'm here. Would that make up for the trouble?"

Laura's lip curled into a smile. "You're a piece of work, you know that? So what do you guys need from lil' old me?"

Flint leaned forward onto the counter, letting his sunglasses slide to the edge of his muzzle. "Did someone come into the store yesterday, about as tall as me, trench coat, dark-red fur…"

A few moments of thoughtful silence; Flint used the precious time to admire the way that apron accentuated her figure just enough to…

"There was one guy, if I remember correctly. He had the coat, but he had blue fur, I think. Yes, blue fur."

"What'd he buy?"

"Just some porn and cigarettes. Probably a real creep."

He decided to not press the issue much further.

"Anything else unusual about him?"

Laura stood in silence for a moment, eyeing the floor and shifting her feet in thought. "Yea, he was a hedgehog."

Flint raised an eyebrow. "That's not so weird."

"Yea, but, hold on a second." She reached under the counter and pulled out a reciept deposit box, pulling a small key form her apron and unlocking it. Inside were only a bout a dozen reciepts, and none of them were very long. Flint couldn't help but a feel a small pang of sorrow for her situation, partially because he was helping the people who had caused her shop to go to shit. She sifted through the reciepts with intense scrutiny until one caught her eye. "Aha!" She pulled it out and scanned it with her finger, a look of satisfaction brightening her face as she tapped the reciept with a knuckle. "He got a military discount."

Even Flame turned to eye her in surprise. "A what?"

"I thought the EST only hired certain species? How could he have a proper ID?"

"That's what I thought, but I put it through every scanner I have and it was definitely legit." She secured the reciept back in the case and put it away. "And I'm really not in the position to press the matter further, you know?"

Flint sighed. "Well, ok then." He eyed the customer across the store, who still seemed to be analyzing the bottles and cans with unnatural fervor. His movements still seemed natural, though. "One last thing. How do we get to Green Row?"

Laura raised an eyebrow. "Why would you want to go there?"

"We're meeting someone there," Flint replied calmly, still eyeing the customer along with Flame, who had replaced the magazine on the rack and now busied himself with watching the crowds flow by through the glass doors. "Is it far?"

"Just a few blocks down. Go to the southwest corner of the square and make a right. You can't miss the expensive houses, you know?"

Flint nodded, slipping his shades back over his eyes. "Thanks, Laura, I owe you one."

"You owe me a lot of shit. I've got quite a list going."

"How about I take you to dinner sometime? Would that cover it?"

"Doubt it. You'd have to do a lot more than that."

Flint grinned. "Wouldn't be too much of a problem. Thanks again." A quick wave and he followed Flame out the door. Laura watched them disappear into the crowds until she heard the customer in the back begin shuffling towards the counter.

"Evening," she said jovially. The black-furred echidna smiled back, unloading the items and organizing them on the counter.

"Doing the weekly shopping I see?" Laura struggled to make small talk.

The man snickered. "Not my choice, I can tell you that." He placed a box of children's cereal on the counter, which Laura rung up, eyeing him with interest.

"Aren't you a little old to be eating this stuff?"

The man laughed, growing a little red under his dark fur. "Yea, that's for my kid; refuses to eat anything else. Drives us both crazy."

"How old is your…"

"Son," the man filled in. "My son's six, turning seven in a month."

Laura smiled, ringing up the last of the items and pulling out some paper bags.

"Those two who were just here, are they friends of yours?"

Laura paused for a minute, then continued to bag the groceries. "You could say that. They stop in regularly to buy some things."

The man nodded. "They seem like pretty rough guys."

"Yea, they can be a handful if you're not careful." She bagged the last of the items and punched the sale into the register. "All right, you total is…"

"Here you go," the man said, putting two bills on the counter, grabbing his groceries and heading towards the door.

"Oh, um, sir, your change," she called after him.

"Just keep it," the man shouted just before the door shut behind him.

Outside the evening air was beginning to cool, the sky that perculiar orange-purple that only a sunset can create. Spotting a nearby bench, Adrian set his groceries down and dug inside his pant pocket for a moment before pulling out a cell phone. As the phone rang, he took a moment to eye the crowds around him, undoing the top button in his shirt just as the other end picked up.

"Sir, it's me…yes, I was calling to report in, just as you requested…right now? Well, I'm in the square…yes, I know that, but…" He took one last cautious look over his shoulder. "…You'll never guess who I met."

* * *

The cushioned metal stock pressed against the top of his shoulder, weighing him down like a pallbearer carrying a casket. He could almost feel his bones ache as he rested his cheek on the rifle, taking a slow, calculated breath as he peered down the telescopic sight at a dead front door on a dead house in a dead neighborhood. Five stories up and two blocks out, he had perched for the last six hours like a hulking gargoyle, put on high alert from the CO after a supposed security leak. Behind him, his spotter was busy cleaning the lenses on his binoculars, slumped up against a ventilation shaft whistling an angsty tune. 

He grunted, releasing his tedious grip on the trigger and checking his watch.

"It's almost 1845," he grunted, resuming his vigil. "It's about time you relieved me, don't you think?"

"You seem to be doing just fine," the spotter snickered, looking down his binoculars and eyeing another speck of dust on the right lens.

"Yea? Well I feel like my fucking arm's gonna snap off. This hunk of shit weighs a ton."

"Well that's what you get for buying rifles off the black market, you know?"

"For the last time, it wasn't black market. The guy's a legitimate arms dealer. I saw his fucking license, for Christ's sake."

"He could've forged it."

He removed the rifle from his shoulder and rubbed at his aching joint with a grimace. "You're way too cynical, you know that? It's not healthy."

"Either way, they standard issue scoped rifles at the armory."

"Yea, like I'm going to use those pieces of shit? You could fire them up a virgin's cunt and still not pop her. Not worth my time."

"Whatever. Just don't come crawling to me when you're getting a citation from command for posession of contraband."

The sniper brought the rifle back onto his shoulder with a grunt, peering down the scope to see two figures standing in his target refrence.

He sneered. "Well well well, look who decided to show up?"

* * *

"This is Blu...yes, I'm aware of the situation. In fact, I'm calling to inform you...yes, that's correct...no, you...no, there's no need for any worry. In fact, a situation has just unfolded which may allow us to fix these problems...One of my men just called in and...around 10 minutes ago...yes, strictly recon...I figured you would have something planned...yes, I'll leave it in your hands."

* * *

Flint eyed the home with an immediate contempt for the owner, whoever it may be. A modest, two-story building, bone-white blinds covering the windows, the stench of fresh varnish on the front door, deep green vines crawling up all angles of the walls as if the planet were trying to devour this monument to the upper-middle class. He pressed his knuckle against the doorbell and shoved his hand back into his jacket with a frown. 

"Nervous?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're shifting your weight a lot. You usually do that when you're nervous."

"You study me all the time?"

Flame shifted the pistol he had pressed into his waistline. "I start to pick up on some habits, yea."

Flint went silent for a moment, trying to peer through the blinds to see if anyone was bothering to answer the door. "Well I hate dealing with upper-middle class shits like this."

"I used to be one of them, too, you know."

"Yea, but you're different."

"How so?"

Flint's gaze slipped downward.

The door creaked open, a middle-aged echidna with dirty-orange fur studying his two visitors through clouded reading glasses that sat precariously on his muzzle. The two young men stood transfixed as if someone has just pressed shotguns against their necks.

"Are...are you," Flame stuttered. "Are you Constable Grey?"

The man removed his glasses and began wiping them with a soft handkerchief. "And you are?"

* * *

"That's the situation thus far. Do you understand?...no, he's to remain unharmed...Both of them, yes...Yes, I want this quick and clean...as clean as possible, yes...you've got it completely...they've done their part...and now it's time for us to do ours...Call me when you've finished." 


	11. X

Adrian pushed one toe against the door of his small home, balancing the bags of groceries precariously in his arms and taking a quick glance inside. No one home; thank the gods. He moved with a swift gracefulness as if he were on air, placing the groceries on the nearest table and moving down the hallway, past his sons bedroom and into his. The room was clean and orderly, certainly the work of his wife, Anika. The poor girl; ship the kid off to school, the husband goes to work all day and all night, and what else are you to do?

Crouching down beneath the bed and pulling out a small metal case, Adrian felt his nerves twitch. There was work that needed to be done, and it was his job to personally see to its completion. Twist the number locks to their designated numbers, lick the dry sweat from the rim of the lips, breath shattering the silence of this comfortable world. He handled the firearm in his hand, for a second contemplating the sheer insanity of the situation. His wife comes home, the groceries neatly set in their proper place, the door to the bedroom left slightly ajar. Curiosity brings her to the doorway, something heavy keeping her from opening it. She calls his name with concern, his son chattering on about the picture he drew for him in class. Mother grows more frantic and pushes the door with her body enough to peek inside. A handgun and a desperate man.

Adrian swallowed hard, loading one magazine into his weapon and slipping it in the back of his khaki pants, throwing his jacket over it as concealment. He leaves the house and locks the door along the way.

* * *

One wouldn't imagine the house of a former EST High Commander to be this domestic. He blames it on the wife, who can't help but occupy her time with interior decoration. To him it's a waste of time. He offers seats to his guests with a warm smile, his generosity received with thanks and a hint of bewilderment. He offers them drinks, and they both shake their heads. Perhaps they are too young for such things. Pouring himself a small glass of vodka, he sets himself down in his favorite armchair across from the two young men and asks them what brings them here.

Flint eyes his partner, hoping he will do the talking this time around. Flame refuses, averting his attention to the small assortment of figurines on the mantlepiece. "Well, constable, we're not quite sure ourselves. Someone told us to come here."

The man laughs with the gruff, scratching voice of a man who's seen his share of cigarettes and war. "Please, please, enough with the formalities. Call me Jonathan."

Flint nods. "He said we could find all the answers we were looking for here."

Jonathan Grey's eyes narrow as he takes another sip of his vodka. "And what kind of answers would these be?"

"Who is Dogwood?"

Silence, Jonathan's eyes beginning to glaze with the kind of unique sheen that comes with the wisdom of old age. "Gentlemen,"he said with a stern, almost scolding demeanor. "I want you to tell me what it is you do for a living and I want you to be honest with me. Who do you work for?"

Flint and Flame eye each other nervously.

Jonathan studied them silently for a moment, then nodded, waving his hand as if to erase his question from existence. "Never mind, I understand. There's a confidentiality involved. Forgive me for asking." He stood up with a tired grunt, slowly turning his glass in his hand as he strode over to the mantlepiece, leaning up against it and studying a small picture that rested atop it in a simple frame.

"There are so many things that go on in this city that I believe even the devil himself would despise. And so many people are deceived into participating, that the act itself is hidden from the knowledge of even those who are committing it." He looked back at his two guests, who watched him with undivided attention as he spoke. "You two would do wise to avoid becoming too entangled in the dealings of this military, this government, this tangled web of a bureaucracy, lest you become food for the spiders who weave it."

"Excuse me, constable, I mean, uh, Jonathan. But you still haven't answered our question."

"Dogwood is the orchestrator of this whole drama unfolding itself around us. The mastermind of this social experiment."

"Retribution?" Flame interrupted.

"I have my doubts," Jonathan replied, placing his now empty glass on the mantlepiece next to the picture. "As to the existence of such a group."

"You think its fabricated?"

"If such a group exists, with its purpose to be the true retribution of an oppressed people, its target would not be military, nor would it be violent. They have seen the result of their violence before."

"Then who would carry out these kinds of attacks on soldiers?"

"Someone desperate enough to put themselves and the lives of everyone under them at serious risk. Someone," he said with a smirk. "Who holds great power."

"An interesting theory," Flame replied, leaning forward in his seat. "But what do you have to base it on? Personally I wouldn't put it past the former DL to resort to terrorism, considering the kinds of atrocities they've committed in the past."

"They're prone to acts of desperation, but hardly on the scale that we have seen."

"So who do you suggest did this?"

Jonathan grinned the way one would imagine God would grin when someone doubts his existence. "You have a lot of personal feelings involved with this, I can see it in your eyes. It would do you good to leave those feelings at home before you go to work, don't you think?"

"I lost family to those fucks," Flame's voice rose.

"And I lost my son. And the minute you bring emotion into combat you've put the enemy's weapon to your skull. They won't hesitate to pull the trigger, they're trained to do it."

Light a match and the tension might ignite and blow up the whole house. "I think we should go." Flint stood and motioned for his partner to follow. Flame rose to his feet and straightened his jacket, glaring at Jonathan who replied with a look of tired amusement. On the way to the door, Flint turned to apologize for his partner's behavior, but was stopped short when his glance turned to the picture on the mantlepiece. On it was a picture of Jonathan Grey in full EST uniform, standing tall and proud like every military statue. To his left stood two other soldiers in similar uniform, though significantly less decorated. One was Constable Winterfield.

"You can study a painting for a lifetime," Jonathan stated. "And you'll know what was painted and how. But unless you study the artist, you'll never know why." He tipped his glass, and Flint closed the door behind him.

* * *

"Alright, what the fuck was that all about?"

Flame scowled, looking out over the darkening skyline. "That's what I want to know. None of what that guy made any goddamned sense."

"I'm talking about you, Flame. You gonna flip out like that whenever we go looking for leads?"

"The guy was a maniac," Flame snarled. "Just a fucking senile lunatic who has no idea...guy probably takes a shit and forgets about it in 30 seconds, a waste of fucking time."

They started down the road in tense silence, neither interested in an argument. The more Flint tried to grasp what the former constable had said, the less it made sense. Who knew, maybe he was a few pieces short of a complete puzzle? But then why did that guy get himself shot to make sure they saw him?

"We're being followed."

Flint stiffened. "How many?"

"Two, maybe three," Flame replied with a whisper, reaching into his jacket and grabbing his revolver.

"You think we'll need that?"

Flame shrugged. "Let's find out."

A quick nod, and both of them made a sprint for the corner. Immediately the two men following them began to pursue, firing as they ran.

"Over here!" Flint shouted, grabbing his partner by the collar and leading him between two houses, pushing open a side gate and entering their backyard. A privacy fence stood six feet in front of them. "Start climbing, go!" Flame nodded and holstered his weapon, leaping up onto the fence and swinging himself over. Flint heard shouting and turned to see one of the men hopping over the side gate; quick aim, two rounds to the chest and neck, a spatter of pink and he collapsed to the ground like a rag doll.

Flame caught his breath, crouching and moving the side of the house on his side of the fence, hearing muffled voices coming from the other side. The gate opened with a lurch and a pair of footsteps ensued, stalking their way towards him. He waited until he saw the barrel of the gun peek around the side of the house and leapt in front of him, grabbing hold of his hand and twisting, wrapping his trigger finger around the man's and firing three shots into his belly with his own pistol. As he threw the corpse to the ground, Flint hopped the fence and caught up to him.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Flint exclaimed, Flame nodding in response. They burst through the side gate to find four more men approaching from both sides, drawing more firearms as they came into view.

"This way." Flint tugged at Flame and led him across the street, the two of them firing in opposite directions at the oncoming foes. AS the fire increased, Flint found a small cobblestone wall in front of a dried out, dilapidated suburbanite home, stray bullets piercing easily through the cracked and crumbling walls and showering glass and bits of wood onto them as they struggled to return fire.

"Mr. Grey has some fucked up friends," Flint shouted, holding his jacket up to shield himself from the flying glass and pieces of stone as he fired three rounds at the slowly advancing pair of shooters from their side. Beside him, Flame pulled back the hammer on his revolver and took careful aim, putting a round through the top one of the shooter's forehead, knocking him backward before he slid limp into the middle of the street. The shooter beside him took quick cover behind a fence a few houses down and fired blindly over the top. Flame ducked down and began to reload his revolver, the firing from his end becoming more accurate and intense as he fumbled with the loose rounds in his jacket pocket.

Flint loaded another magazine into his Beretta. "They're getting too close! If we stay here we're..." A series of cracks and pings followed my a soft, slithery crunch. Flame locked the cylinder into his revolver and turned to his partner, who was leaning up against the wall on his side, a cold, bewildered look of shock stretching his face unnaturally, eyes wide and dilated as a steady spurt of dark, crimson blood streamed down his throat.

A woman works idly over a hot stove while her son trots around the living room, a small biplane in one hand and he thinks he can fly to the ends of the planet. A man and a woman push the limits of their own inhibitions in a tiny bathroom stall, while a young businessman questions his own morals as he pours himself another glass of rum to try and drown out the screams of the corpses in his head. A man frantically reloads his pistol, positive that what he's doing is both right and just, and a few homes down a teenager frantically presses his palm against his best friend's bleeding neck.

He can feel time around him begin to slow, the swaying of the trees in their rhythmic waltz along the skyline grinding to a crawl. The blood in his veins begins to boil, Flint growing weak against his weight, his teeth stained with his own insides and dripping with a sickening mix of blood and saliva.

"The longer you wait with this kind of information, the less chance you have of getting it used, Flame. On a long enough time line, the survival rate of everyone drops to zero." Razor's words ring in his head, drowning out the shouts of the two men rushing towards them, firearms withdrawn.

Kill or be killed.

This is the finish line.

With a bloodied hand, Flame picks up his revolver and struggles to raise his own arm. His finger slips on the trigger, one of the shooters fires but misses his head by a few inches. Flame re-aims and pulls the trigger, one of the shooters twisting as the shot connects with his chest and he drops. The other moves towards cover once more, but suffers a fatal shot to the side of the head and the right side of his face explodes onto the lawn.

A rush of blood to the skull, the crunch of grass against stone.

Flame turns and fires at a silhouette standing on the small cobblestone wall, but finds his weapon empty.

No hesitation. Emotion breeds death.

The more you question, the more people you love suffer.

The black-furred silhouette struggles, the weapon shaking in his hand.

He sees his son. His weakness is his downfall.

Flame twirls the revolver in his hand and grips the barrel like a baseball bat. The handle acts as a bludgeon and he swings at the shooter's head. He squints and fires, the bullet lodging itself in Flame's shoulder. He grunts and his weapon makes contact with its target and both fall limp against the ground.

Sirens increase and the smell of death intoxicates him. Footsteps grow near, a pair of boots stand shimmering against the moonlight. Flame sees a grin of ivory daggers and a trickle of blood croaks from the inside of his lip and Grease congratulates him on a job well done.

/End of Part One.


End file.
